Extraordinary People are Adorable
by ChurchillSaidSo
Summary: Some time after the events of RF, a bored James Moriarty meets a young woman who catches his eye and intrigues his brain. What's the secret she carries that could blow the mind of a criminal mastermind? Moriarty/OC. T for early chapters, M for future ones.
1. Chapter 1: Elle Daniels

Elizabeth "Elle" Daniels was a girl who worked for her living. It wasn't a situation she was used to or had particularly craved when she left home a year ago, but she was full of energy. She liked to keep busy.

So far, she had had moderate success for the goal of keeping herself occupied. She had been working as a secretary for the past six months or so in the office of a lawyer just outside London, but found the position lacking for her skill set. Her boss, all too aware of her restlessness, had been willing to up her pay by nearly fifty percent with benefits to persuade her to stay, but as she had kindly informed him, it was not the pay that disinterested her. It was the ever present, looming threat of becoming bored. Her tasks at the firm were too simple, too blase.

Her boss let her go reluctantly. He could recognize that she didn't quite belong. She was the diamond among the men and women of her surroundings. Not quite a "diamond in the rough", as is so charming and quaint in the films and novels of the past two centuries. No, she had been cleanly cut and elegantly polished without losing any of what her father called 'feminine virtues'.

On her last Friday evening, Elizabeth Daniels, twenty-four, sat typing at her computer at her usual break-neck pace- she had quick fingers. When the report was typed up she paused to sift through papers and find the last one of the day. When she did she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up.

A paper cup, steaming with vapor and just giving the scent of nutmeg license to tease her nose, was being offered to her. With a beaming smile, she accepted the coffee from her almost-ex-boss, teasing gently,

"I hope you're not trying to entice me to stay with spiced lattes now, are you Mr. Briggs?"

The lawyer smiled fondly, folding gray crinkles around his eyes pleasantly. "Perhaps I am. We'll miss you around here, Elle. Just about done?"

"Yes- I'm about to finish up the files on the Woods account." She took a little sip of latte and smiled. Mr. Briggs had become rather like a paternal uncle as of late, but she preferred to stay well within the bounds of professionalism. "Can I do anything else for you, sir?"

"Why, yes. Come and see me when you're done. Don't feel like you have to finish up- leave something for the new girl to do tomorrow." He smiled amicably and continued towards his office, coffee cup in hand.

It was short work on the Woods account- they were one of the biggest files Mr. Briggs had on record, and to Elle the entire family had become familiar faces, though she doubted any of them recognized her- she was just the secretary. Just now the family patriarch was putting the finishing touches on his will- nothing terribly exciting.

But it brought to mind nagging memories of her own family.

She winced. No. She wasn't going to ponder over that today. Not on her last day of work.

She finished typing up the details of the will, printed them out, and put them away in the Woods family file. Then she saved the file, shut down the computer, shrugged on her coat, picked up her purse and coffee, and went to see Mr. Briggs.

He answered with a friendly, "Come in!" at her polite knock.

"Elle." He smiled. He actually stood up, to her surprise. He had never done so, as if she were anybody of importance.

She accepted the hands being extended to her and smiled hesitantly as Mr. Briggs shook them.

"You've been such a great help this past year, m'dear. Now, I want you to tell me, in an appropriate reversal of roles, is there anything _I _can do for you?"

"For me?" She asked in surprise.

"Yes." The old lawyer gestured that she sit, and proceeded to do the same. "You've said you wanted to move into London. That's what I did, when I was young. As you can see, I've hardly left."

"Yes, sir. I've already secured a flat. I think the change of pace will do me good."

"What about a job?" Briggs asked, opening the lid on his coffee and waving some of the steam away. "Have you managed one yet?"

Elle pursed her lips, dissatisfied with her answer. "No, not yet. I have interviews Thursday and Friday next week for office work."

Briggs psh'awed lightly. "Office work! Forgive me, Elle, but I believe you can do better. There's no doubt you would get offers from both of your applications- but hear what I have to say."

The young woman blinked in minute surprise, but nodded with interest. It was one of the things the gentleman liked about the young secretary. While intelligent and clever, she was always listening for new ideas, new information.

It was why she was perfect for the postion mentioned to him last week at his monthly gentlemen's club. His friend needed a girl like Elizabeth Daniels more than he ever knew- Lord knew Briggs was sorry to lose her.

He explained simply, "An old friend of mine works in the heart of London for the British government. At a meeting last week he mentioned to me that he had had to let an assistant of his go, and that he was hard pressed to find another."

"What branch of government?" Elle asked curiously.

Briggs waved his hand fleetingly- dodging her question. "He has his fingers in all sorts of pies. The point is, I believe you'd be perfect for the job. You could work yourself up the ladder and be quite well off in a few years. I hate to see intelligence and wit like yours go to waste, Elle. Tell me you'll humor your old boss- will you consider it?"

"I don't believe you'll ever let me forget it if I don't." Elle laughed. "I'll look into it. Who shall I call? Who is your friend?"

"I knew you'd say yes." Briggs clapped his hands gleefully and began to write an address down on a piece of parchment with energy. "I've already spoken to him. You've got an interview on Wednesday, four-thirty."

"With?" Elle prompted, standing and taking the paper.

"Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Make sure you make a good impression, Ms. Daniels. First impressions are everything."


	2. Chapter 2: A Clean Slate

Elle left her interview with Mycroft Holmes that Wednesday with a chest full of hope, but a clear head. It was entirely probable that she would get the postion- she had met every requirement- all that was lacking in her resumé at this point was experience- and she had the good word of Mr. Briggs to support her.

Mr. Holmes, dry, exact, sarcastic and unaffectionate, had ended the interview with a polite handshake and the promise of a call within the week to inform her of his decision. But she was hopeful. She had seen the spark of intrigue in his eyes.

She left the building just as calm and collected as she had entered it. Her black sheath dress was ideal for the end of the summer's dull, throbbing heat. Her blonde, wavy hair was seemingly unaffected and unfrizzed, pinned up in a becoming way as it was. She had attracted the silent glances of a number of the elderly gentlemen in the lobby where she waited for her appointment but paid them no mind.

She had only realized minutes into the interview that the job title given to her by Mr. Briggs was inaccurate. She had assumed she would be another secretary in another office, and therefore had not given the weight of the interview much thought. Personal assistant or aide would be better, she thought, when halfway through their meeting her potential tasks were explained to her.

"I'm quite sure I can do all of this and more, Mr. Holmes." she had said to him honestly, scanning the printed sheet he had given her. They were all duties she had fulfulled for Mr. Briggs at some point or another, though none of them could quite be classified as secretarial.

She looked up with a slightly questioning smile, knowing now that this interview was now all-important. "May I ask how many have applied for the position?"

"A handful of candidates have come to me from within the outer offices, all sniffing to advance themselves. You, Miss Daniels, are the only outsider applying."

"That applies to your benefit, I suppose." Elle said reasonably. "I come with no alibis, no reservations, no prejudices. Could you do with a clean slate, Mr. Holmes?"

"Couldn't we all?" he responded dryly, to which she had smiled.

Now, as she stood waiting to hail a cab, nobody looking out into the street would have guessed how much her heeled shoes pained her, the easy, logical thoughts going through her mind, or in reality how much she was depending on getting this job.

She had been born and raised much richer than she was at the current moment. She had had to sell her suburban car to pay the down payment on her new flat. This was no matter, she thought, raising her hand with a practiced air to slow the cab wandering down the street. If she got the job, she would be comfortably settled indeed. And there was always public transportation. She held no qualms about that.

She did not know, but might have guessed she was being watched, if her mind hadn't been occupied. Her intention to make a good first impression had not gone unnoticed.

Mycroft Holmes watched her hail the cab from behind his office curtains and felt a stab of something like pity. She was young. Questionably young to become involved in his affairs. Especially as a personal assistant.

His phone chimed quietly from his pocket. He fished it out and answered it with half a smile. Briggs was an old friend of his, besides being a useful business partner to have. They shared a mutual respect.

"Impeccable timing, as usual, William." he greeted.

"Will you have her?" came the lawyer's fruity voice immediately. "She is certainly qualified. Best you have so far, I imagine."

"Too young. Inexperienced." Mycroft said promptly, returning to his desk. "Too green for this office."

"That might prove useful." Briggs said. "She has no loyalties that tie her to anything."

Mycroft snorted, shuffling absent-mindedly through her resumé. "What about her past? Anything significant?"

"Not that I could find. You're better on that front than I am, old friend. I believe there's something strange about her, but as it never interfered with day-to-day business I never pursued it."

The elder Holmes sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His friend, though fierce in the courtroom and jolly out of it, was faithfully unthorough in the minor details that Mycroft himself was so involved in. The girl could have any type of background, any at all, even if she had graduated _cum laude _from her university.

"Give her a month, Mycroft. She won't have found anything important out by then, will she?"

"I wonder that you are so invested in this young lady's fortunes, William." Mycroft commented, just slightly teasing. "Are you quite sure the relationship was all business?"

"To hell with you, man. She's young enough to be my granddaughter." The lawyer chuckled.

Mycroft decided. "We'll give it a few weeks, William, for your sake. At any rate I could stand some new blood."

"That's the spirit." Briggs said cheerfully.

Outside, unbeknownst to Mycroft or Elle, another set of eyes was watching the woman enter the taxi with interest. It was unusual a Holmes to hire a new face.

James Moriarty, hidden well behind sunglasses and an overcoat across the street, watched the cab leave in a southerly direction, his brain idly working at the fresh information. If she was taking a taxi she had no car of her own. Yet to Jim, this was niggling. Her clothes, her reservedness, the manner in which she had descended the steps and hailed the cab- as if she owned the very pavement she tread on- appealed to him as someone with money, or who was used to money.

This was interesting. Why would such a young woman with money to spare on fine clothes be applying to work for the underbelly of the government itself- Mycroft Holmes? Why also would such a woman take a cab?

His nose curled in distaste. Dirty public spaces, taxicabs.

The woman herself would have passed out of his mind and been forgotten, useless, except that he was not only here to gaze at passersby. He was searching for a fresh way to infiltrate Mycroft's offices- they were extraordinarily useful to have as sources.

He could always hack into the servers. Child's play. But there was always the risk of being caught and traced. He wanted no inkling, no trace of even a remote, passing fantasy that he was alive and well and continuing to roam the streets of London.

His mind lingered on the young woman. Perhaps he would just have to go about this the old-fashioned way.


	3. Chapter 3: I'd Like To Try You On

She had been dozing, collapsed on her couch in her flat for some time when her mobile phone rang. Blearily she emerged from under the blanket, eyes still shut, searching for it with her fingers.

She didn't even want to answer it again. It's been a bad day. The first phone call of the day had tired her out amazingly and she didn't want to move. In the past all that bad days have entitled her to do have been just this: low music, the warmth of a blanket and the null of a quiet mind for hours and hours.

At least, she'd been hoping for a quiet mind. Today her psyche was not cooperating. The phone ringing for a second time had interrupted a train of thought she'd been pondering for a long while about her parents. She was still unable to come to terms with them logically- and this bothered her.

"Elle Daniels." she murmurs, smiling hard into the phone and letting the smile slide off and drop onto the floor immediately, as soon as its purpose was fulfilled.

"Miss Daniels." A dry voice immediately grabs her attention. She sits up abruptly, her clutch on the phone suddenly tight.

When she was in secondary school they completed a survey that wanted to know how children learned. When the results came back from the teacher she had not been surprised to learn that she was an auditory learner- everything that processed through her brain seemed to go through her ears, then her eyes. She was a good ear. She could recognize voices she had only heard once.

Remembering the papery, drawling and dry voice of Mycroft Holmes was not an intellectual exercise. She knew it was him. He didn't even need to provide the bored intonation of his name over the phone- she knew before the second word was out of his mouth.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked, in her excitement blurting out the first thing that came to mind, instinctually, "How can I help you?"

"By being in my office Monday morning promptly at 800 hours." Was the immediate and slightly pompous response. "I'd like to see how we work with one another. Does this suit you?"

"Wonderfully, sir. I look forward to working with you."

"Likewise. Until Monday then, Miss Daniels."

"Goodbye." She hung up and tossed the phone out in front of her, amused. It was only Friday and she had a job. She had the weekend ahead of her to finish cleaning and unpacking the flat, and then presumably an 8-to-4 Monday/Friday schedule. She liked those. They were neat and ordered. Some relief fell over her.

She looked into the box nearest her, renewed and cheered by the phone call. She got up, put on socks, and started unpacking again. The prospects of a new job, new flat, and a new life had put the first phone call out of her mind.

Nobody had power over her here. She must remember that. There was no one to dictate her life but Elle. She mustn't allow them to get her down.

The scene that greeted Mycroft Holmes on Monday morning at 8 o'clock was something of a surprise.

He had entered the building as usual to the nods of the other people there- the silence was usual. The stupor, too, was usual. It was Monday morning. One was allowed to be less-than-chipper. One was allowed to dither, just a little bit. Mycroft himself quite loathed Mondays.

Except somebody else didn't seem to. In fact, that someone was bustling around his office as if she'd been there for months- a rare occurence, these days, when all of his assistants seemed to flee after half a year. And she was organizing. Filing. As if she'd been taught where to look.

"Good morning, sir." Elle said cheerfully when he came in, but appropriately so. Not in the way of an over-eager intern going out of her way to please. An accustomed workwoman, rather, who knew her way around an office and was suiting it to her tastes. He was relieved to hear it. But it was surely too good to be true.

"Good morning, Miss Daniels." Mycroft said, slightly suspiciously. "Are you in the habit of keeping yourself busy? Or is this a happy grace period I will have reason to miss later on?"

"I insist on keeping busy at all times, Mr. Holmes." she replied. "Your tea is on your desk." She gestured with a well-groomed hand. "It's hot, but I didn't know how you preferred it."

Mycroft dropped his umbrella in the stand by the door and strode over to the desk to inspect the tea tray with curiosity. English breakfast tea, all in order. Sugar, lemon. He raised an eyebrow and decided to test his new assistant.

"Would this be milk or cream?" he asked lightly, settling behind the desk and beginning to add sugar.

The girl, to his vast amusement, had the breeding to look positively scandalized for a brief moment.

"Milk, of course-" she hesitated for a fraction of a second- "Unless you would prefer cream?"

"Certainly not." Mycroft assured her.

Both of them were satisfied. Elle was going over her clipboard, and added a note for her future benefit.While she was doing so, Mycroft peered at her approvingly.

They would work well together.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Elle settled comfortably into place in her new job, which gave her adequate amounts of necessary exertion which enabled her to sleep peacefully at night. This in itself was an extraordinary thing. She revelled in sleep during weekends, doing odd work in the sun by the window instead of frivoling, feeling assured in her success.

Part of the reason she got along so well with Mycroft was her thick skin- she knew better than to expect to be superpraised for work well done- after all, it was expected. She did not want coddling, nor immediate advancement. She was also immune to his sarcasm, and had even survived a number of encounters with the man while he was in a foul mood.

The other part was the odd, professional relationship they shared that was, to an outsider with a dull brain, strange and unbalanced.

Jim knew better than these people. He could see, just by watching, that the new girl was a gem that Mycroft Holmes could see for it's true worth. And be damned if he didn't intend to keep it close. It was enough to be getting on with. A little more patience, perhaps, and the time would be right. For now, he took to studying the girl at length:

Elle Daniels was clever, in her own way. She never spoke out of turn- indeed, rarely spoke in front of other people at all. But he could see sometimes, through the windows, that she spoke efficiently and often in the sole presence of Mycroft Holmes- perhaps when he asked for an opinion. Perhaps when he wanted reports. He couldn't be sure.

Jim glared at the glass of the office he had been haunting for the last few weeks with increased malice. What he wouldn't give for a bug. To be able to hear, at the very least, what exactly went on in the brain of the British government. For the elder Holmes was the computer data center that the government went to for assistance. The younger was the one the police had gone to, but no matter. _That_ problem had been efficiently squashed. He had bigger fish to fry nowadays.

In the glow of the orange sunset he watched the girl leave first, prepare to hail a taxi- she always left first. She and Mr. Holmes were careful to keep their relations professional, always.

He wasn't sure _why- he_ would have charmed the little thing into his bed before now. She was a picture to look at. Quite a picture, actually. With impeccable dress sense.

Jim drew a finger over his lips lazily, leaning far back enough in his chair so that even if she chanced to look up, she shouldn't see him.

He couldn't be sure, of course, from this distance, but he could almost get the whiff of a Vivienne Westwood dress. High, glossy heels, too- maybe Prada. Such _taste._ So _expensive. _He clicked his tongue. It was admirable.

He hadn't bothered to look her up yet, this girl. He should, soon. He was tired of perhaps'es and maybe's. He wanted to be up close. And the girl was the key. And everybody knew what the keys got you.

Just then Jim leapt forward, shoving open the window quietly and backing into the shadows again, watching with new alertness that radiated off of him- every trace of former idleness gone.

As he suspected, the figure waddling down the steps was the man himself. With the window open, noise from the street drifted in. For a few moments, only cars and traffic.

Then, as he'd hoped, Holmes called out to his assistant, who turned to meet him with a smile,

"Elle! One last thing."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" Her voice was rich, swaying- like music, Jim thought absently. His eyes narrowed and closed, listening, hidden in the corner of the dim, abandoned office.

"Elle, do you have any plans for the coming Friday?" Mycroft's voice asked lazily. Jim could hear the pompous smile and resisted the temptation to roll his eyes under the lids. Was the dolt finally going to move in on her? About time. The girl's musical voice chimed out again,

"Nothing of importance, Mr. Holmes. Just work." And didn't she sound content about it? You would have thought her work was dancing naked in the park and being paid for it.

"Then I wonder how much more work you could stand to please the demands of a selfish old statesman- namely, me."

"Probably much more, sir."

"Splendid. How would you feel about going in my place to a gala this Friday evening? You need only represent yours truly. I have other engagements more pressing than socialite parties."

"Happy to, sir." The girl's voice took on an amused quality. She was not teasing- but the smile was in her voice. "I'm not sure you've made it clear that this is _work _we're speaking of?"

"Rest assured that you may frolick as you like, young woman. If it does not please you you may take your leave after an hour or two." Holmes' tone had turned teasing; "However, I do beg you keep my delicate position in mind."

"Of course. Where is it?"

Jim shifted closer to the window.

"The Savoy. 7 o' clock. Formal attire."

"How elegant." Privately, Jim agreed- but was impressed that the young woman did not sound notably impressed. Elle's voice continued, "Will you be needing a report on it, sir?"

He prayed down below for a no. Plans were calculating themselves neatly in his brain. Oh, this would do nicely. Very nicely, indeed.

"A brief oral summary Monday morning will do fine, Miss Daniels. I do believe your taxi is waiting."

Jim turned carefully, watching Mycroft wave little Elle into her cab. The politician climbed into his own car and was driven away in the opposite direction.

The mastermind grinned, satisfied. You had to appreciate the neatness of the thing. He couldn't have asked for the chance at Elle Daniels any better if she'd been served to him on a silver platter.

Swiftly he turned on his heel and sped from the room- he was glad he need not return to it. On his way down the stairs he began to text Sebastian- he had plans for Friday night. He wanted a clear path.

~Author's Notes:  
Traditionally, tea is served with milk, _not_ cream. There are such things called 'cream teas', or Devonshire teas- but this is actually a small meal comprised of tea and scones with jam and clotted cream. You're perfectly free to put cream in tea if you like it that way, but faithful tea-drinkers might turn up their noses! By asking whether there is milk or cream on the tea tray, Mycroft is examining Elle's traditionalism and British breeding. And maybe poking fun at her intelligence, just a little bit. :)

_This has been a note from the author, who coincidentally takes reviews with her tea._


	4. Chapter 4: Mind Games, Mischief

It was six-fifty.

Jim waded through the throngs of the London scene, the elite set of the city, with a quote from some obscure novel rattling around in his head. He was bored- he hadn't seen Mycroft's secretary yet. He was amusing himself with both the absurdity of the busily chatting people in the room- even with money people just didn't know how to tastefully arrange themselves- and with his own musing thoughts.

_ "Not by wrath does one kill, but by laughter." _

He was hidden in plain sight with his tux- nobody turned a second eye to him. They were too concerned with their politics, their gowns and gossip. For tonight, he didn't mind their mindless chatter.

Richard Brook had been a fantastically dramatic ploy in his game with Sherlock Holmes. The trouble was that the idiot reporter had leaked his picture into the very article that had sparked the fire that would burn Sherlock's good name. She'd been swiftly taken care of and _corrected,_ but still, the damage was done and the imperfection annoyed him. It was probable that no one would recognize him- even if they did, no matter- Richard Brook was harmless, pathetic, disposable.

He turned his thoughts back to the words he was musing on at the moment. Nietzsche probably hadn't meant it the way Jim liked to think of it- but either interpretation worked. Literally or metaphorically, killing by laughter was _much_ more fun. Satisfied his tendency to weave complex webs to lead his victim straight into his hands of his own stupid accord, more often than not. He liked cases like that- those that required more than a cursory glance, that demanded attention and detail and could wholly consume him and keep him firmly, if not precariously grounded in this dirty, overpopulated city that nevertheless he was attracted to for its vivacity. Its dark blood, its rich, delicious history.

His work as a "consulting criminal"- maybe he liked that phrase after all- is the only thing that historically has kept him sane. His brain is at least mildly challenged and occupied by the requests of his clientele. But otherwise he's always thinking, brooding, mulling over things, reworking things inside his own head for hours until if he doesn't get a client he's going to snap, splinter and shatter into innumberable pieces and dissolve into the fabric of the universe for days and wake up in a bathtub of ice and blood (his?) ruining his suit. Again. He never did figure out what had happened, exactly. Needless to say, it was unpleasant to lose control of himself like that. Nothing quelled the fires, however, but working. He's just got to be patient.

Anyway, Jim's not going to just kill somebody (at least, somebody of importance in his schedule) the second they trip over his path. True, he's going to make life a hell for them until they _get out of the way_, but he's not one to rush things. He's got time. He feels the assuring quality of forever within him at all times- the infinity of the universe is embedded in his very skin. He's not going to overreact if the situation doesn't call for it. He can afford to toy.

As of late, though, his cases are boring. Ordinary people cutting under the law to get an easier slice of the world for themselves. Some of them want favors. Sure, he can do that. Easy-peasy. A quick killing here, a signed document there. Cases that are easily signed and sealed and finished by teatime. Docile, most of them. But then again, some of them want power. Jim rejects those cases with annoyance and contempt- perhaps even disapproval. He doesn't ladle out success. There are no freebies in the world of gaining power and keeping it. He knows it well.

He's going to implode into himself if he's not properly engaged in something soon, though. It's why he's circling cautiously around Mycroft Holmes- the buffoon had an intellect that could surpass even the memory of his brother's- but he didn't do anything with it. Played nanny for Parliament- Mycroft Poppins. Neither could he be nettled into doing anything interesting- not even Sherlock's death had urged the man out of his neat little government hole. It was an everlasting pity.

Still, while Mycroft was no fun to play with, and not worth the trouble of exterminating, he might prove to be useful, anyway. After all, the things he knew- the information that must be stuffed up in that old brain of his- that was precious stuff. No need to rid of it. There was valuable intelligence there.

The only (minor) trouble was getting to it. Right now the only available outlet was somebody on the inside of the office- Elle Daniels was simply the girl of the moment. If she intrigued Mycroft enough to hire her, she might be interesting enough to tolerate talking to for a short time. Long enough to find a nice little handle to grip and twist when he needed.

She would give in. Cave. All of them caved. All of them had something to hold on to, manipulate effectively. Especially, unfortunately, young women. It was another pity among many, he thought. He would have respected the other sex a lot more if more of them had the incentive to steel themselves against the superfluous things that _feelings_ were. Even Adler had crumbled under the gaze of an intelligence of a man greater than hers. And she had been so close. So close, only to give it all away.

Jim scowled for a second, but quickly brushed it away. The room was nearly full, now. Still no sign of the girl. Perhaps he would get a drink while he waited. She was going to show, surely- he's hardly seen someone so young so happily married to her work. He smirked at the floor, glancing this way and that. Never mind. He's cracked harder nuts.

He ordered a scotch on the rocks and nursed it disinterestedly, continuing to scan the crowd. Unlike many of them, he's not here to get positively smashed- he's working tonight and only wants something to do with his hands while he waits alone with his thoughts.

He was beginning to accept that precious few people in the world held any promise of actual genius. People like Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, like Irene Adler and James Moriarty were few and far between. They had simply attracted each other by weight of their intelligence and ambition, that was all. The reality was that actual genius was rare. Applied genius even rarer. It just didn't happen anymore in this age of instantaneous action, reaction, impulse, need-and-fulfillment- this technological world. Genius had to be nurtured, tended, grown with care over a lifetime. It was hardly going to happen anymore. He was one of the last of a dying race.

He frowned. Shook himself. No need to be getting sentimental. After all, he wasn't here to muse. He was here to work.

Where was the brat, anyway? He detested lateness. He glanced moodily at a grandfather clock as it began to chime the hour over the din of more and more people filing in, laughing, chinking glasses together. The lights were bright enough to illuminate the dullest of old faces and make the youngest among them glow with shiny, fake glitter. So concerned with appearance, seemingly. And yet how silly, how stupid, how ridiculous they all were to him.

On the seventh and final chime of the hour, he caught a glance of a blonde head- younger, smaller than the others, swept up and braided elegantly. But it wasn't the color of the head that had attracted him, though it was a blonde that simply had to be bottled, for all it's pale glimmer. No, it was the way the head was held, the crown high and the forehead low. Shoulders back, spine straight. A perfect outlined sketch of grace, elegance.

Jim blinked in dull surprise. Couldn't possibly be her, could it? He can appreciate beauty, sometimes. For the most part though, it's useless. Impractical. He doesn't know why he suddenly cannot look away.

It is her, he accepts, the secretary, after shaking himself. But no more in her professional dresses and neat buns. Instead she is wandering here and there, face to face, smiling, shaking hands and taking names in a knee length, sleeveless sheath gown of the most scandalous red, slim enough to show the curve of narrow hips, slender, pretty legs. But modest. A party dress for a woman who has no intention of enjoying herself. He suspects this immediately. The red is only an attraction- a tool to be noticed when she wants to be noticed. He certainly has.

He sits down on a stool to wait. She does not intend to stay long- but then, why disturb her work? She's already being passed around, introduced to greasy politicians and papery thin, dry old men with large shares in oil wells and car companies. He sips his scotch. He'll let her wear herself out a little. Let himself gather his strange thoughts.

But she is not beautiful, he admonishes himself. No, not so. She has all the regular features in the correct places- but there is not beauty there. Her eyes are too big and her makeup too muted to really call her beautiful. She is too understated, too young in this high end barroom of orange skin and surgically corrected beauty to be among their ranks. She is too carefully arranged, too sharp to be called beautiful, though he supposes many people would say so.

No, she exuded _gracefulness. _Yes, that was it. Elegance, poise. He might have thought it before, watching her hail taxis with the command of one hailing a chariot- but now it was splendidly obvious. She never faltered a step. Her smile was charming, not flirtacious. There was no false laughter, no affected touches. He could not hear her voice from here, but saw that she was not really speaking anyway- merely listening. Representing Mycroft dutifully by appearance, not word. Prudent.

At any rate, she was charming and at least has some degree of common sense. He's not going to have to dumb himself down for this one- thank God. All it will take is a little charm- and Jim's got loads. Best not to lather it on too thick, though. She might not be a politician herself, but she's handling Mycroft's comrades so easily that she will see through an elaborate facade in moments.

The minutes passed quickly. She never wandered far from the bar, so Jim remained there with his watery scotch, watching as surreptitiously as possible. He couldn't turn his stool completely around to watch her at every moment and attract her attention- which was annoying, because she kept revolving around the different cliques, exchanging conversation with different parties for different amounts of time. She wasn't just good at her job, he realized. She was ferociously tenacious at it.

Slightly uncomfortably, he also realized he would essentially be better off being himself when his moment came. This unsettled him a little. He simply was not used to doing that- not with strangers involved in his schemes. Their jobs were to be his pawns- whether he got to be the king or the queen or the bishop, knight, or rook depended on the day. He was used to acting, quite liked acting. But tonight was the first time in a long while that it was going to be ineffecient for his purpose. There was no face he could construct that would serve to lure Elle Daniels into place as well as his own.

Within the constraints of an hour and a half, the girl completed her purpose to the best degree. At any rate, he's been watching her sip the same glass of wine, being increasingly giggled at, toyed and flirted with by the few crusty gents that even remain- many have left the political scene to cavort at the other bar, dance with their mistresses and congratulate each other over cigars at their immense, universal successes. He hates these parties.

Finally, after a good quarter of an hour spent detangling herself from the clutches of a miserly, retired old statesman who was completely convinced that the little woman was his first wife ("Run off again, did you Gracie? Is bad matters, that is!") Elle retreated to the very place he wanted her to be- the bar.

The moment she came within a foot of them, the barman appeared on the other side of the counter, smiling questioningly, his white suit horribly tailored, but at least respectably silent.

"I'll have a French 75, if you please." she said, her rich voice sheer politeness. Cool, calm, collected. But her expression suggested otherwise- lips pursed tight, hands clutched tightly around her clutch purse. Stress signals.

"Would that be with gin or cognac, madam?" The barman asked, hands beginning to fly with accustomed skill.

"Cognac, naturally. Thank you."

Jim raises an eyebrow and comments into his scotch glass, "Bit of a traditionalist, then? Some people prefer it with gin."

For the first time, she lights her eyes upon him, and he actually smiles when he looks up to meet them. They are sharp, testing eyes, not willing to put up with anything even close to resembling crap. Grey and clever, they are like pieces of ice in her pale, heart-shaped face and seem willing to pick to the center of him to search out his intentions. But he is comfortable in that she never will. No one does. He remains smiling.

After a moment, perhaps appraising him, she offers a tiny, politely disinterested smile, and says thoughtfully, "I suppose I am." Her eyes track the barman as he shakes her drink vigorously and begins to pour it out. Jim continues,

"They say an American fight pilot wanted more kick than simple champagne could give. So he added cognac, lemon, and sugar. And they say it resembles a French 75 millimeter artillery piece- the kick, that is."

The barman set the champagne tulip in front of the girl, and Jim flipped a bill from his pocket and slipped it over the counter before Elle could even fish through her opened clutch.

She watched the exchange with raised eyebrows, pursed her lips for a fraction of a second, but then smiled in an amused way, popping the clutch shut again. She raised the glass to her lips, smiling lightly. "I hope you don't suppose I'm going to make polite conversation just because you've bought me a drink?"

Jim shrugged. "I was hoping so. I'm sure I make better conversation than your elderly friend." He nodded towards the slumped, passed out figure of the man she had just escaped, who was snoring peacefully in an armchair.

Elle grimaced. "I certainly hope so." She took a sip of her drink and let out a little laugh. "You're right, about the French artillery. I love a cocktail with a heady background. Affects the taste."

"Does it?" He found himself smiling again.

She hummed in assent, but seemed content to remain silent, mulling over her drink. Well, he couldn't have that.

"Your boss will be pleased with you. You made the rounds much more quickly than anyone else." He gestured with a hand around the emptying room- the American bar was becoming the hit of the night. "Every head accounted for within an hour. Well done."

"Who says I have a boss?" she smiled coyly, but refused to look up. She had yet to even touch the bar or sit down. He was going to lose her unless he could hook in soon.

"I've seen every face here a dozen times over- but not yours. No, you're here for somebody else. New blood, fresh face." He took a drink from his warmed scotch and grimaced. "It's quite refreshing, actually. Ever since that brother of his-" he made a vague, slicing gesture- "Mycroft Holmes has been notoriously hard to get along with." He allowed a little smirk to rise over his drink. "How are you faring?"

A little pink popped her cheeks into new relief. She laughed quietly, just a little, as though surprised, and chiding herself for being so.

"I didn't realize you were a politician."

"I'm not." He extended a hand. "Richard Brook."

A tiny flickering of recognition. Perhaps she knew the name. Perhaps she was even now dismissing it. It was common. Unlike him. But he'd caught her interest.

She reached to shake his hand, smiling. A little squeeze. "Elizabeth Daniels."

He pressed her cool fingers to his lips briefly and grinned. He liked Elizabeth better. Yet something niggled at him. The name. Where had he heard it?

"That name belongs in films. If not, within the pages of a novel."

"Oh, either would be lovely, if only it were true." She smiled, but wearily. He has cracked her certainty with the flirting. She doesn't know what to make of him.

Jim rose from his stool lanquidly. Upright he was just tall enough to glance down and catch the top of her head with his chin, though she wore heels. He made a little bow. Dramatics were a part of his style.

"Elizabeth Daniels, I'm about to ask a very serious question, the answer to which may determine the nature of our newly inducted acquaintance."

The good thing was, she smiled over her drink. The bad was that she had to go and be witty about it. "Yes, Mr. Darcy, what is it?"

Teasing? Oh no no, she would learn to drop that very quickly. It bristled him, but he wasn't about to admit that he liked it. No, never.

Nobody challenged him. Especially not clever, suspicious secretaries.

He paused pointedly and glanced at the french double doors leading to an outside patio, slipping his hands into his pockets and turning up a boyish, crooked grin chocked full of charm. "Quit work for tonight, won't you? Join me outside. Have a cigarette. You ought to relax."

Her lips twitched, and she giggled suddenly, as though this suggestion were ludricious. At his raised eyebrows, she shook her head apologetically and said,

"I don't mean to laugh at you, Richard, but it's just that..." She shrugged white, bare shoulders, smiling somberly, "If you knew me, you'd know that I don't _relax._ Hardly ever, anyway. It's not my nature." She turned up smiling eyes- the wonders of a freshly tailored tux never failed- "But I would love to pilfer a cigarette from you."

Jim grinned. He left his drink on the table and stepped to open the doors and gesture that she go through.

Outside the night was warm enough- though it was impossible to see any stars. The light pollution of London was enough to warrant it, though- she was her own star.

So too did Elle Daniels seem to shine. Her wheat colored hair and pale skin contrasted well with the deep red of her dress and the dark of the night. She leaned against the marble railing, palms resting on the surface gently, and he was reminded of a painting he had seen somewhere, some time ago.

He scowled at himself and forcibly shoved all further thoughts of art and beauty out of his head. _Working._

Leisurely taking the carton of cigarettes, he slid one out and leaned back against the railing, offering it to her. She took it in the space of only a couple of seconds, but out of habit, Jim took note of everything- left-handed, noticeable writing callus, this in spite of carefully smoothed and shaped nails- neither were any of her fingers yellow- not a regular smoker. She also brushed her fingers deliberately across his palm before she took it.

She put the cigarette to her lips and let him light it for her without a second glance. She took in a deep lungful of air that might have been a little reverent, for a simple cigarette- her exhale was more controlled. A deep, grey cloud of smoke courteously aimed away from him. His eyes were drawn to her lips, pink and supple, and her throat, her _throat_. He could just see his fingers around it, dragging choked screams from it, eliciting cries, extinguisting her little life like a flame from a candle.

Elle turned her head as though in response to his thoughts. She stretched her lips up as one would stretch one's limbs after long, deep sleep- slowly, sensuously, satisfied. His fingers twitched. He'd like to flay her alive and smile as he did it, if only to wipe that collected expression off her face.

Jim quickly lit his own cigarette, damning her quietly. His mother would have loved her, forgiving the cigarette. In fact, outwardly she seemed just the woman his mother would have liked- and yet he suspected- felt he _knew_- that the cool exterior was shielding something just out of view. Secret, dirty, and mischevious. He decided right that moment he would find it out. Call it a side note on the way to Mycroft Holmes. He could afford it.

Besides, if Elle Daniels had to die someday, she was going to do it with her little secret on her lips and his fingers around her pretty windpipe.

So he smiled around his cancer stick and asked, "How do you like your coffee? Tea?"

"Black. One sugar. Either of them. Why?" She flicked off ashes from her cigarette delicately, crushed it, and fixed him with that piercing grey stare again.

"I have a feeling you'll be needing it tomorrow morning."

Elizabeth's response was to reach over and slide one cool hand gently up his chest, under his jacket, and slip the other one into his pocket. In a voice that was all innocence, she asked, "Do you think you'll have the opportunity to use that information?"

Jim smirked. "Yes. I do." He had all the opportunity in the world. The way she was looking at him begged multiple opportunities, starting tonight.

Elle smiled, leaning forward and pressing her palm into his chest as he leaned down to kiss her, slow and easy. Her mouth was much different than her cool skin- it was an electrical impulse, waiting to be set aflame. He'd never thought of himself as much of an arson, for all his other impulses, but then again...

She pulled back, biting her smirking lips in a way that ought to be illegal just so that he can do it to her, and slid out of his arms and back onto her heels.

Some of the mischief he'd suspected earlier displayed itself on her smug smile as she brought his forgotten cigarette to her lips and started to walk away, singing quietly,

"No you won't, dear!"

A's Notes: _My lovelies! You're all dears for keeping up with me; if you continue liking this story I'll continue writing it, with all of you in mind. :) I thought I was going to have much more time this week, since I figured babysitting my nephew wasn't going to take up _all_ my time. Well, it does. Babies are needy, what can you do? Anyway, this turned out much longer than I planned and this part is hardly done, so here's chapter four, which essentially exists to enjoy passage into the fascinating mind of Jim Moriarty. That also means it's itty bitty plot is boring if you're kind and allow that it exists at all. The next one will have a bit more juice, promise. Ta! :)_


	5. Chapter 5: Two Can Play

Stupid building. Stupid steps. Stupid corridor.

He hated this office building, and every grimy dirt hole of an _office_ in it.

He hated the weather, which was dismal and grey and couldn't decide whether to rain or not, and which had been the second thing to put him out of temper that day.

The first had been Elle Daniels.

Jim tore off his scarf and overcoat, shoving his sunglasses into the pocket and dropping sulkily behind the waiting desk, damning the girl.

It wasn't the snarky bit with the kiss and the cigarette that irritated him. Nah. On the contrary, after blowing up with pride for a few seconds he had let it go. Laughed. It was adorable, her snubbing. He quite liked her pluck- few people outside Seb had the guts to stand up to him- it was sweet.

No, what bothered him was that he had underestimated her. He had thought her clever, certainly, as well as tenacious and motivated. Admirable qualities, but so blasé. So ordinary, these days. Every young workwoman worked herself to death to put on the appearance of perfection- a mask to earn the better job, the better salary, the better man. The real thing though- a clever woman with her prize in mind, was hard to find.

Except he seemed to have stumbled upon one such a woman. While her rejection amused him, it had also ruffled a feather. Maybe two. But no matter- she'd soon know who she was dealing with.

It was five of four. In another fifteen minutes or so, he would walk back down the steps again and meet the little brat across the street and try again.

Despite himself she was catching his interest. He had finally taken the trouble to look her up- Elizabeth Daniels- and there had been nothing there. Not a jot. Some rubbish about her work for one of Mycroft's brown-nosing lawyers on his website, not yet updated. An address across town. And that was it. No birth certificate, no parents, no background, no university, no history. Nothing.

Three or four ideas were jostling around in his head, but the top one was that she was obviously lying about her name. Elle Daniels was a fiction, not to be believed.

Jim tutted quietly, watching the window begin to collect droplets from the damp air outside. More and more questions to be answered. A nice little puzzle. It was going to take longer than he'd hoped to infiltrate Holmes' offices, but no matter.

After all, he really could do with a distraction.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft afforded her a glance and a sarcastic smile, which for a busy man like him was a gift. "Good afternoon, Miss Daniels." He continued writing at his desk, which let Elle know in no uncertain terms that her boss would continue to work into the latter hours of the night.

Elle left the office with a peaceable mind; Mycroft would call her if she was needed. It was not a question that her mobile- recently greatly upgraded at the cost of Mycroft himself- would be charged, on, and set to full volume. Mycroft Holmes never texted if he could call, and if he called, she was expected to be ready to answer that call, whenever it came.

She accepted the tart nod of the evening secretary- the one devoted to keeping an eye on the tedious filing and organizing that had been her old job- and continued out onto the sidewalk, nose buried in her emails. She stood on the sidewalk in her usual place, waiting for the taxi under the protection of a black umbrella, when-

"We meet again, Elizabeth Daniels?"

She gasped. That voice. A voice that sent a shard of ice into her heart and inexplicable quivers into her knees as well as a hard-wired chemical route to her brain- it brought her back to earth with a painful tug. She turned, knowing and yet _praying_ that it wouldn't be the face she expected to find-

It was. Her dashed-but-dashing suitor from the other night at the Savoy. She put on a hard, grimacing smile while her thoughts scurried around for order.

"Richard Brook. Imagine meeting you here."

He grinned sort of lazily, like a cat, showing all his white teeth- or perhaps like a child hiding something naughty. He was no less done up than Friday night- and by no means less pretty in a well-tailored suit, perfectly coiffed dark hair, and posh shoes. Elle bit her lip. _Get a hold of yourself, girl. Just because he can dress doesn't mean he can dance._

"Imagine." he repeated, smiling as though what she'd said were funny. But then it hardened into something darker. Something familiar. For a moment, that wicked, cold smile froze her blood.

"Shall we walk?" He suggested, all politeness. And yet, it seemed to her that to refuse was not an option that was exactly prudent. There was nothing whatsoever threatening about him- he'd not said a word out of place- but that smile... she knew it so well.

She shivered, shaking herself out of a daze.

"Yes," she said, offering a smile from under her umbrella. "I suppose we should."

They ignored the oncoming taxi and began to walk down the road side-by-side, lone strollers in the late summer's London shower.

"I hadn't expected to see you again." Elle prompted after a few moment's silence. She allowed herself a glance at him. What was he doing here? Here to call her out on the kiss? Walking out? Embarassing him?

The man seemed to be stewing in his own thoughts, but at her words, he smiled again, mindless of the rain.

"I could agree with you, except I was very intent on finding you."

"You sought me out?" Elle stopped in her tracks.

Richard Brook paused a step ahead, hands deep in his pockets.

"How?" she demanded, close to angry but very carefully keeping it in check.

She could see him pointedly waiting for her and knew that she would get no answers by standing here in the rain. She huffed quietly and fell into step beside him again, scowling at the ground.

She could hear the grin in his voice as he replied easily,

"I have contacts."

"That's flattering." she said honestly. "And disturbing." She began walking more quickly, eager to leave him behind.

"That's dedication-" He easily kept up with her longer strides, being just tall enough to do so without much effort- "You ought to know something about it. Coffee?"

"I'd rather not. Thank you, Richard."

"Why not?" He gave her a charming smile this time. "I know just how you like it."

"_That's_ why not." Elle snapped. "I should have thought one rejection good enough for anyone. Why do you persist?"

"Oh, go on. Didn't I spark even a _tiny_ flame of interest?"

"No."

"You're a clever liar, but I still don't believe you. You wouldn't have kissed me if you didn't want to, darling."

She winced and kept her eyes rooted to the wet sidewalk. With difficulty, she ground out, "Fine. Interested? Yes, perhaps. I regret having to humiliate you and leave you standing there. But overall you left me disappointed. You thought you could run me away to bed and swagger out the next morning with a new conquest. I have better taste than that. I don't do one night stands."

To her surprise, he grimaced- as though pained. "Why do you assume that's what I wanted?" he asked. "It's unwise to assume things, dear. Are you sure you don't want a coffee?" He gestured towards an approaching shop. "It's beginning to rain something dreadful."

She was too annoyed to bother with his flirting, but found herself smiling in spite of herself. Ridiculous man, what was he even doing? "You may as well have told me plain as day and saved yourself the purchase of a drink."

He opened the door of the coffee shop and waved her in, adding after her, "You never did thank me for that."

For a few moments, their banter ceased as Richard leaned over the counter to order two teas. Not until he had delivered the warm cup into her hands did she smile and ask him sarcastically,

"Suddenly you're Mr. Polite?"

"No," Richard settled himself into one of the café tables and smirked when she followed suit. "That's not _quite_ what they call me."

She decided that after the purchase of a second drink, she ought to at least play along. When he paused she prodded him. "So what do they call you?"

"You'll find out. If you like." He cast up an expectant glance.

"Is that a proposal?"

"Of a sort, perhaps. What do you say?"

Suddenly, for a moment, she felt ridiculously as though instead of a bistro table flirting with a man, she was sitting behind a desk about to sign a document sealing her fate.

She bit her lip hard for a few seconds, deciding. When she had, and when she looked up again, it was to find a heavy stare waiting for her. Brown eyes full of something promising- at the very least, interesting. If only she would agree.

But as always, she found herself to be her father's daughter. Instead of answering a definitive "Yes!" (which was tempting) or a vehement "No!" (which was probably practical- who were Richard Brook's _contacts,_ anyway?) she took a sip of her tea and asked pleasantly,

"You know where I work. And from where our conversation left us on Friday you probably know what I do. What do you do, Richard?"

Richard let out a honeyed laugh and a pleased smile. "I'm a private mediator. Sometimes I'm hired by a commercial client, but mostly people come to me on an individual basis. Please-will-you-fix-it-for-me-to... et cetera et cetera."

"Really?" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "So let me guess- you patch things up for... certain persons-" Both of them smiled- "And in return they slip you in to parties at the Savoy?"

"Something along those lines. It's quite useful."

"For what?"

He waved a careless hand. "Meeting people. Pressing the flesh. Scouting out clients. Turning a pretty head." Rather than smile then, he seemed to be trying to stare her down- at least until her eyeballs collapsed into themselves or else she spontaneously combusted. She stared back, queerly fascinated.

For a long time they were silent, staring off against one another. She wasn't sure if the stare was hot or cold or assessing or not, but before it ended, Richard said quietly,

"I apologize. For being rude to you the other night. It was presumptuous of me. A woman like you doesn't deserve to be... toyed with."

"Quite right." she said quietly. Then she smiled- a real smile, with warmth. "I might forgive you if you ask me to dinner."

Something sparkled in his eyes- interest? Amusement?

He leaned forward slowly. They still had not broken eye contact. "Elizabeth," he rolled her name off his tongue in a slightly thicker-than-normal Irish brogue that made her stomach heat up and curl up woozily, "Are you available Friday?"

"I just so happen to be."

"Dinner?"

"Love to. Where and when?"

"I'll pick you up. Seven o' clock?"

"Perfect. I assume you're going to find out where I live?"

"Naturally. There, then. Am I forgiven?"

"I suppose, but you're off to a rather bad start, don't you think?"

"No." Richard put the plastic cover over his empty tea cup, smirking. "You know what they say about third dates."

She laughed. "Yes, the old rule. What _they _say. But what do _you_ say?"

"I say prepare yourself, darling." He stood and extended a hand. "Kid gloves off."

"I welcome it." She pressed his hand, expecting a shake, but instead he kissed it reverently again- with a heady stare to follow that left her busy mind quite blank, quite silent for a long, still few seconds.

He left the café and she remained sitting there with her cooling tea, somewhat- completely- rattled.

Then she stood up, plunging her hand in her pocket, ready to violently pluck it out and dial the number she knew would give her the answers she craved.

But she paused. Sighed. No, no, that wouldn't do. Still too soon. She had no favors to cash in yet. She couldn't go asking for dirt on Richard Brook from _them_, could she? No, definitely not. Besides- if _he_ was snooping into her life, there wasn't much of Elizabeth Daniels to find. No harm done.

But still...

Slowly, hesitantly, she pressed in a different number and went out into the rain with her tea waiting for it to ring.

He answered on the third ring with a gruff, "What?"

"Alistair? It's-"

"Lizzy!" The man's tone melted into warmth. It was still hoarse, and she knew in person it would smell like cigars and rum. "How are you? Where have you been, lass?"

"I'm fine, just fine. Listen, since I know you have to tell him I called, could you do me a favor?"

"You know I'll do anythin' for you, lass. Anythin' within my power."

She hailed a taxi and continued speaking as it pulled up. "When I left I made a new name for myself in a fit of dramatics."

"Aye." The man chuckled. "Elizabeth Daniels. We found you out in about a minute, sweet'art."

"I know that, but I was wondering- could you make her real?"

There was a pause. She climbed into the waiting taxi, put the phone on hold, and told the driver her address. When she pressed a button and held the phone back to her ear, Alistair was mumbling,

"You mean get her papers and everythin'? ...I don't know what he would think of such a thing, lass- and you all just beginnin' to-"

"It's not to hide from him, Ali, it's from somebody else." She was whispering, glancing at the driver. "Somebody clever that I don't want finding out about home. Not a full identity cover- just enough to throw him off the scent."

Another uncomfortable pause. "What kinda company are you keepin' down there in the city, miss?"

"Don't worry, I'm a big girl." she assured him. "Just- could you humor me?"

"I don't know that I could do it _personally,_ lass. But let me make a few phone calls. I'll see what I can do."

Elle smiled in relief. "Thanks so much. You can reach me on the number mother has. And Ali? You're my favorite uncle."

"And I'm not even your uncle." He responded fondly, and both of them chuckled at the old joke.

"Say hello to mother for me, please."

An uncertain grunt. "Uhuh. ...Your father too, lass?"

"No-" She suddenly decided. "Just tell him I'll see him soon."

"I will, miss. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

She smirked, satisfied, and let the phone fall back into her jacket. She took up her tea and sipped it tranquilly, looking out at the rainy London afternoon and looking forward with cool interest and new confidence to Friday. 

_Notes: Another longish one! Oh well. I much prefer long chapters to short, don't you? This update's for you, dears! Merry Christmas (or happy holidays)! xoo ~ A_


	6. Chapter 6: Sleeper

Friday dawned late, as usual.

Ridiculous, the seasons. Stealing the light away and plunging the earth into darkness time after time. Later and later every day, until in a few months he'd be waking up in utter darkness and have to depend on electric light to work. Quite tedious.

Not that anybody else got up at the hours he liked to. This was both peaceful and annoying- both a lovely, quiet time to have a bit of coffee and take a walk outside, while at the same time almost _too_ quiet. Sometimes there was nothing to do if Seb wasn't awake to call and arrange people. Sometimes he read, but his mind wandered. He hated telly. Loathed sleeping in unless absolutely necessary.

So he prowled the streets of London until the traffic picked up and she began to revive from her night's rest, stirring into action with varying speeds, depending on the day. It was quieting, observing the outside world while it was vulnerable and dark.

He liked Fridays best. On Fridays London came alive early and never stopped for breath until the wee hours of Saturday morning. Work and play mingled on Fridays, as they would tonight. He was anticipant. Confident.

But he had the boring stuff to sift through, first.

As usual, his first phone call of the day was from Sebastian. He never _liked_ to wake up early in the morning like Jim did, but it wasn't as though he had a choice. His "G'morning, boss." was hoarse with sleep but ready, as ever, for instruction.

Jim sniffed and flicked open that day's folder, pressing the speaker button while he messed through papers. "What have you got this morning?"

"Not much. Everything quiet, like you asked for. Nothing but appointments and training some new boys today."

"And security?" Jim turned the pages. Dull. Boring. Ennui.

"Tight as ever. You're still wanting we should keep eyes on the girl and her boss?"

Jim thought a moment. "Let go on the buffoon. He never leaves his damned office- we'll know where to pay a visit if need be. May as well give them a day off on the girl today, too. I know where she ought to be tonight."

A tiny chuckle. "Yeah, that's right, your date. And tomorrow morning too, I suppose?

Jim scowled and wished Seb was here to glare threateningly at. That would have shut him up. "Unfortunately, it's unlikely. This one's proving annoying."

"Really?" The hitman sounded surprised. "Oh."

He knew that Seb was wondering why he hadn't just dropped the girl yet and moved to another, more foolproof strategy, but didn't feel like explaining himself to a shady marksman this early in the morning. He changed the subject, shuffling through his papers again.

"What's this?" he snapped suddenly at a fresh page. "Why are we taking on some stupid ID case? Just because I don't want to be seen doesn't mean I've stooped to smuggling idiots across the border."

Seb paused, as he always did when Jim got antsy. Ever watchful, ever weary of gunfire. Then he cleared his throat.

"I thought it might prove useful later on, boss. A favor, you know? Of course, I can't be _totally_ sure, but the guy who came to me said what if we could do this for his family- that's what he said, family- they'd keep us in mind if we ever came to a spot of trouble. He sounded sure of himself. And he smelled like Habanos."

"Who the hell are you getting me tangled up in now, Seb?" Jim growled.

"He wasn't any big guy, boss, I swear." Seb said quickly. He was quite awake now. "He was a hitter like me, I could tell- or he used to be ten or twenty years ago, before he got fat. But anyway he said we never had to worry about getting snitched if it ever came to that. That's- that's good, isn't it?"

Jim was silent for a long moment, breathing deeply. "I want to know who thinks they're so brilliant they've got that kind of power to give out for a simple papers job. Who are you supposed to be hiding?"

"He wouldn't squeak on the details, but he did say "she". A woman. I'm supposed to meet her in South London. Somewhere in Southwark. Five o' clock."

Jim froze. A sudden suspicion- a hunch, an angry prickling up his spine.

"Where in Southwark?" he asked Sebastian. Glancing down at the yellow notes page with Seb's scrawly handwriting covering one side, he ran his finger down the notes, looking for an address. He found it as soon as Seb responded,

"Apartment 523, 9 Brown Place, Southwark, London."

For a few seconds Jim's thoughts were in turmoil- possibly from the shock. Then he breathed,

"Oh, she thought she was so _clever._" he mused aloud. He could nearly laugh if he wasn't so angry. Oh, he would have her neck for this, surely.

"Who did, boss?" Seb asked awkwardly.

"Our little birdie is beginning to get herself out of hand, Seb." He grinned. "Call her people, tell them you can't make it 'til six. Never mind the idiots on security, I want you to be there the minute she gets out of work to the second I get there."

"_You're_ going to meet her?"

"Yes, idiot. She's the same girl, understand?"

"Mycroft's?" Slow on the uptake, as usual. Surprise surprise. "Jesus. What the hell is she up to?"

Jim closed the folder and stood up, grabbing his coat. "Now you get it. While you're up and about, find out who she's really working for, who her people are, who you spoke to on her behalf, and find out what makes them so confident that they can waltz right into the goverment unnoticed."

"You got it, boss." was Seb's dutiful reply.

Jim hung up and went for his morning walk a little later than usual, needing the activity to get his brain calm enough to sort through the jumble.

That girl. That clever little thing. What was she? A sleeper agent? A refugee?

If she was searching for cover papers it meant that she meant to stay in London a while. And she hadn't moved to get them before she started work under Mycroft Holmes and niggled her way firmly within. All evidence pointed to sleeper agent. Hired spy.

Well. If Elle Daniels was a mole, she was very soon going to be rooted up and her secret gutted out- with his bare hands, if possible. But carefully, carefully. Got to find out who was putting those lovely designer shoes into her closet before she could be properly dissected.

He found himself swatting away minor feelings of disappointment. He had been looking forward to a slow, leisurely, even enjoyable distraction in Elle Daniels. To find out that she was toying with his game made her a threat, and therefore on the deck to be extinguished.

Annoying that he had almost become personally involved. It was going to take a lot of Seb's talking him out of it for the temptation to kill her himself to go away. And he had wanted to, from the moment he saw her. It was instantaneous, miraculous, and somehow _personal,_ that urge to see her blood pool up, her skin slowly pale and grow cold, watch her eyes fade away.

He supposed that it was a bit like love at first sight, for psychopaths. Perhaps it was, just a little. He wasn't to know.

What a morning this turned out to be.

_Notes: Happy New Year, m'loves! I hope all your resolutions come true. :) I've been meaning to come back to Extraordinary People for what seems like weeks- ever since last chapter was posted. But college doesn't pay for itself, and a girl's gotta work, you know? I finally got my first day off today (woo, snow!) and this is the result. I humbly sign off, hoping you enjoy this mini chapter. Don't forget to review! xo ~ A_


	7. Chapter 7: Secrets

"_What do you mean, 'He can't come until six'?_"The lady said quietly, dangerously into the phone.

Sebastian hesitated, as he would have with Jim. Damn, if she didn't have the same poised, close-to-screaming voice that Jim did when he was offed with things.

"Sincere 'pologies, madam." Seb made his gravelly voice say, very politely, in a Northern accent. Sebastian was good at disguising his voice if need be, and Jim had told him not to be seen. He glanced up at the posh apartment building from the phone booth he was hiding out in and continued, "But findin' your people to be so affable my boss said he wanted to come meet you his own self."

Elle's voice was snappish and tinny from the poor reception. It was the bloody phone boxes, really. They ought to be done away with, they were useless. "_I have places to be tonight, I haven't time to fraternize with Alistair's 'friends' from the other side of the-_"

"Which Alistair are we speakin' of, miss?" Seb asked, too pleasantly.

A two seconds' pause. She'd slipped and given a name. Probably a vital one. Stupidly, she'd just opened her side to a hit- and they both knew it.

"_If you'd be so kind,_"she ground out at last, with extreme reluctance, "_To tell your boss that I'm under a bit of a schedule tonight, I'd be delighted to make his acquaintance._"

"Thank you plenty, miss. He'll meet you promptly at six. Goodnight."

Seb cleared his throat and used his cell phone to report to Jim, fiddling with the handgun in his belt fondly. All was going according to plan. And now they had a name.

A few hours later, when Sebastian had driven Jim back to 9 Brown Place and opened the door for him, he asked casually,

"Are you sure you want to do this? It could be a trap. Her people- all of them could know about you by now, Jim."

Jim scoffed, fiddling with the button on his left cuff. "Of course it's not a trap. She was annoyed I was coming, and even more annoyed that I was coming late. She's not thinking of anything but Richard Brook."

"Yeah, but not after you spoil it." Seb ran a hand through his messy dark curls and stared up at the apartment building, analyzing it. He wasn't nervous- never. He was a man too prepared for any eventuality to be anxious about anything. His feet were wide apart and steady. His hands were steady too as he batted Jim's hand away to do the cuff's button for him. But he still worried. "You're going to come out of hiding to _her?_"

"Who better? If she's going to beg me for her pitiful life, might as well be the right name. Nobody will care about the loss of one stupid girl."

Seb shut up and automatically reached up to swipe down Jim's suit, simply out of habit. He would have done the same to himself, except he was wearing his hit jacket. It was dusty, faded, worn black leather and why the hell he was so fond of it Jim would never know- and he'd even offered to buy an upgrade.

Clothes were disposable. They got worn out, tore, didn't fit, had to be displaced, tossed away, stored, or disposed. Same with people. Same with Elizabeth.

"There. How is it?"

"Posh, as usual, Jim. Fab." Jim could hear the dryness in Seb's voice, even if he wasn't looking. He didn't mind, really. He enjoyed their subtle teasing.

But he still swatted Seb upside the head. Idiot.

"Right then." Jim shoved his hands inside his pockets and started walking towards the doors of the apartment building. "Might be long. Never know with these things. Wait in the car."

"Sure, boss." Seb got into the driver's seat, and Jim listened to him driving away as he pressed the buzzer for Elle's apartment, number 523. Top floor. Good.

The intercom crackled a bit before coming to life. "_Hello?_"

"I've an appointment with a Miss Daniels at 6 o'clock." Jim said as blandly as possible. He kept his arm covering the camera, hastily checking his watch as he did so. 5:55.

"_Please come in._" Elle's voice responded, graciously and just a note impatiently.

"Thank you, I will." Jim pulled the door open and ignored the man behind the counter who looked up as he came in and punched the button for the elevator.

Floor one, two, three, four, five. Ding. Doors open.

The light outside the elevator flickered hesitantly as he stepped out, and went out as he began to walk away. For a moderately well-kept apartment building, it's maintenence was sure rubbish.

Still, the effect was heartening- the flickering seemed to follow him all the way down the hall to the last door- 523.

He rang the bell and waited impatiently in the shadow of the shivering lights, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets. Damn Seb, not letting him carry in a gun.

Though she knew he was coming, it was a few moments before the door opened with a hasty and generous smile and a-

"Please excuse me, I'm right in the middle of getting ready for a-"

Her eyes caught up to her mouth, and she halted. Dark red lips parted in surprise, large eyes widened. A flurry of emotions- confusion, mostly- and then he watched her calm, collected mask fall neatly into place. God, he wanted to slap it off. Just give him time. He knew how frightened she must be. She would break.

"Date?" he finished, perking up a grin. He wandered an appreciatively slow gaze from her stocking'd feet to her sharp, glaring stare. He watched her lips purse tightly and grinned wider. Then he sighed mock exasperatedly.

"Lucky man. You look simply marvelous, dear."

And she did. More daring even then the red dress she'd worn only a week ago- was it only a week?- it was knee length and nude colored and slim, with a black lace overlay that could have hinted at subtlety, except with a raspberry red mouth and heels to match, she obviously wasn't just hinting.

He bit the corner of his lip absently, flicking his eyes back up to her face and thinking with a pang of regret about how good she would've been.

"May I come in?" he asked abruptly, business-like.

"Please do." He heard her murmur. Dear thing.

She stepped aside to let him through and he walked in easily, stretching his shoulders a bit just to get comfortable.

Then, as though faintly hopeful, as she was shutting the door she half-asked quietly,

"Richard Brook..."

Jim scoffed and brushed Richard Brook away with a toss of the hand. "Fiction." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Very similar, in fact, to Elle Daniels."

She shut the door with a snap and turned around, a faint smile on her lips.

"You never told me you were working for the other side."

Jim smirked. "I _am_ the other side, andyou're the one who failed to mention your substantial contacts on this 'other side' we speak of. Why not? Don't you want to be friends?"

"We've only just met. Besides- a lady's got to keep her secrets." She folded her arms protectively over herself, as though guarding the remaining secrets there. Not that they stood a chance.

"Ah, but now you've lost your trump card." He sauntered forward, enjoying the mounting tension in her posture. "And you've forgotten, we've not really met at all."

Stillness. Silence. He could hear her thinking- she was bouncing from point to point like a pinball machine, but she was coming up with no answers.

Jim smiled and made a little bow like he had the week before. "Jim Moriarty." He straightened and reached up to curiously brush the gentle curve of her cheek with the back of his hand, watching it flush with something like pleasure. "Hel-_lo._"

A charming smile appeared, very tight. Her chin lowered and her eyes were steady and bright, as though she were playing coy, but her hands were clasped. Anxious.

"Hello indeed."

"This is the point in the conversation where you introduce yourself." Jim mock-whispered.

"I'm disappointed." she murmured. "Don't you know by now?"

He swiped his fingers down her cheek to lift up her face into the light. So pale, even under stress. "Give me the satisfaction of having it right."

"Why should I give you satisfaction in anything?" she asked coolly.

In response, he reached up with his other hand and pressed his fingers gently into her neck. "Because you _want_ to." He clicked his tongue gently and returned his eyes slowly to hers.

"Your heart is all of a flutter."

She jerked away, taking a step backwards. For a few seconds, she wouldn't- couldn't?- look at him, lips drawn tight.

When she had composed herself, she met him straight in the eyes with a complex look that held many different things. Frustration. Nerves. Something else, something strange he couldn't place. It bemused him.

Then, at last, she caved. Just a little. Just enough. She bowed her shoulders and sank into a graceful little mock curtsey, introducing herself dryly, "Elizabeth Spencer. Pleasure."

"Quite." Jim murmured, watching closely. Then he turned and began to pace slowly around her little apartment. It was neat. Clean. No dust. Nothing out of place. Even the fireplace was newly scrubbed.

Scrupluous, he noted with approval. His own apartment was currently in a state of disaster. He ought to hire this girl himself.

He shoved that thought away, annoyed. She was going to die in this neat little apartment, remember? Bringing himself back to task, he said conversationally,

"Now that we're properly acquainted, let's get down to brass tacks, shall we?"

She remained silent, watching him amble around her space. He went on, trailing into a hallway by the windows behind the living room,

"Who do you work for? Why have you infiltrated the offices of Mycroft Holmes?"

Quaint bewilderment crossed her face. She stepped behind the coffee table to watch him. "Infiltrated? I haven't the slightest idea what you're-"

"-Elizabeth, let's _not,_ shall we?" he snapped, whipping around to glare menacingly at her. "Just this once- enough games. _Tell the truth_."

For a moment, she looked blown away by his words. And then, _impossibly,_ she smirked.

"All right." she said simply. "All truths."

He stalked back down the hall and stood over the couch, leaning into her face. "Who are you working for?"

"Me." she answered easily. "Next."

Liar. "Why do you want ID papers?"

"Because I didn't want you-" she hesitated- "Richard Brook to find out who I am. Was. Whichever. I have a long history that's better left... unread."

Jim's eyes narrowed. "I have no doubt it will be a fascinating read."

For a minute, she bit her lips, and she seemed to be far away. Then Elle sighed and turned her back on him, sinking into the couch with sudden fluidity. "This interrogation is rather boring. Shall I just start on page one? I'll skip the prologue." She reached down and pried off one high heeled shoe, then another.

"What?" he snapped. What the hell had just happened?

She looked over the back of the couch at him, smiling. "Come, dear." She patted the seat beside her. "Let me tell you a story. Mine."

Damn her. How? How could she guess? The one thing- two things, actually- that would shut him up instantaneously. A story. A game.

"Cast of Characters." she began without him, speaking to the fireplace, her eyes closed. "Elliot Spencer, a wealthy man- a king, albeit of questionable means. Cecilia Daniels Spencer, his wife, the queen."

Jim's ears pricked up at "Daniels". So that's where she'd gotten it from.

"Elizabeth, their only child. Alistair, the king's advisor, the queen's cousin. Dukes, lords, pages, and other members of the court. End of cast. The scene- a red castle, covered in ivy, which has been in the family for generations, among other things. The year is one since past. The estate is in chaos."

Despite himself, Jim sank on the arm of the couch, listening and watching her placid little face. She continued,

"Center stage, the king, Elliot, speaks with his advisor Alistair. The queen looks on, probably doing needlepoint or something. There is a knock at the door.

"'Alas, a knock!' the king says. 'Come in!'

"'Father, I wish to speak to you.' said Elizabeth, with much trembling.

"'Well, my child, what is it?' the king asked impatiently. He had little time for such things as daughters.

"'I wish to go to school.' The princess replied. 'Well, that is already agreed upon. You have almost completed university. Why do you bother me with this, stupid girl?'

"'Father,' said the princess, 'I wish to go to school to study law.'" Elle shifted slightly. Her peacefulness had melted. Jim understood. This had actually happened. She was lost in memory.

"'What! No daughter of mine shall study law! Impertinent child, I sent you to school to find a suitable husband to rule the kingdom after I am dead. Be gone, and never speak of it again!'

"The princess wept and fled, vowing that she would learn what she liked, do what she pleased, and never more be bound by the wishes of her father. But at this, her father cut off the princess' funds. She could graduate university, but she couldn't afford to continue alone."

Elle opened her eyes slowly, staring far, far away. "She hated him for that. For a long time- a year- they didn't speak. The queen was distraught by it all- she was their only child, after years of trials and tribulations."

She stood up and wandered towards the window, hugging herself. "She moved into the city, managing to live unsupported. Untethered, free. But lonely. Her father's allies were dubious in the eyes of the public, and she was no traitor. So she kept herself busy. Held a few jobs. Gained experience, skill. Had a few lovers, met some new faces. But she was still lonely. And growing bored. So finally, the gap was bridged between father and daughter. They found each other in themselves, and regretted the time lost. They moved on, and things went on as they always had, except for one thing- the princess, for the first time, was entirely on her own."

A pause. Jim stood. But the story wasn't over.

"She thought she had escaped the... obligations her father had made the family. For a while there, she really believed she was something different. Someone normal at last. And then she met somebody- a man. So familiar, so mysterious, that it sent chills into her bones. If this man, she thought, finds out about my family and I, all is lost, and I will be doomed back to whence I came, this time forevermore."

Another pause.

Impatient for the end, Jim stepped behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders, watching her look out into the setting sun.

"And then?" he prompted.

"And then all was lost." She finished simply, and sighed. "You found me out, and you turned out to be... well." She turned, smiling at him. "What shall you be? The lonely kingdom next door?"

"What makes you think I'm lonely?" Jim scoffed.

"You were going to take me on a date until you thought I was zoning in on your scheme with Mr. Holmes, whatever that may be- point one. You took the time to flirt with me instead of killing me off, point two." She lifted her arms and trailed them loosely around his neck, her smile becoming teasing. "And I've seen how you look at me, consulting criminal. You want to pull me apart bit by bit." She breathed her lips across his cheek and then hovered over his mouth. "But first you want to have me ask you to."

Jim laughed quietly and closed his eyes. _Damn her._ His grip suddenly tightened on her shoulders as she began dropping light kisses down his jaw. She smelled good- not sweet, exactly. Floral. Like lilac and fresh grass.

"I don't believe you. But you have heard of me?" he murmured as though bored, distracting himself in order to try to think. What was he doing, again?

"Oh, yes." Elle answered. She lazily drew her fingernails up his scalp as she spoke and he nearly combusted. "Father was _so_ interested in your little spectacle on the roof of St. Bart's. He said you weren't dead. What would be the point of the game if you were?" His grip was getting tighter and tighter, but she seemed to pay no mind to it.

"That's all _he_ knows." she murmured suddenly. "_I_ know other things."

He couldn't take her touching him any more. He tilted back to look at her, and her eyes were thoughtful and as big as ever. They flicked up to meet his, almost wonderingly, dreamily.

"I know where to listen to the whispers that aren't there." Elle whispered. "The name nobody ever says. The perpetual question mark. The man with all the keys."

"You're making it very difficult to choose between killing you and kissing you."

She smiled like this was obvious, massaging circles into his neck with her fingers, unconcerned. "Better choose."

He leaned down. Her eyes closed.

A sudden vibrating noise. _Burr, burr. Burr, burr._ And immediately afterwards, a familiar, dramatic durge. _Dun dun dun __**dun**__...dun dun dun __**dun**__..._

Jim glanced down at Elizabeth, who sighed heavily and morosely.

"Beethoven's Fifth?" he drawled lightly. "Bit melodramatic of a ringtone."

"You're one to talk?" she quipped, letting go and gliding away to pick up her phone from the couch.

"...Nah." he agreed, shoving his hands back into his pockets and leaning against the window to watch her phone call.

She picked up the phone and pressed it to her ear without looking at it, facing away from him as she said painfully sweetly,

"Alistair, dear, like I _told you_, I am absolutely and completely f-"

She froze. The muscles in her back tensed. Jim quirked an eyebrow.

"Papa!" Elle gasped. Her entire demeanor changed from slightly annoyed to complete bewilderment. "How did you-?"

Pause. Jim couldn't hear the reply, but Elle laughed uncertainly. "Of course." A longer pause. Her father must be clever (or otherwise connected) indeed, to get a number Elle had hadnso carefully guarded. She was certainly rattled- her usually confident voice was shy, uncertain. It was endearing.

Elizabeth's shoulders softened, and Jim could imagine her face doing the same. Her voice lowered to a gentle pitch.

"Whenever it suits you, Papa." she said softly. "I want to see you."

Another pause, a few 'yes'es and 'fine's.

"Yes, all right. I'll see you then." Then her head perked up suddenly. "Oh, and Papa? If I might bring a friend along, he's someone you've wanted to meet."

Jim's eyes narrowed suspiciously. She wouldn't dare, the little brat. He wasn't about to throw himself around London, being seen by other people who might matter.

She turned and smirked at him. Daring.

"Yes, Papa, him. You'll quite like him- I do. Yes, I'll see you then. Good night."

She hung up, tossed the phone back into the couch, and casually began to step back into her heels.

"Is the car still waiting?" she asked lightly. "I'm starving."

"You didn't." Jim growled.

"Oh, but I did, dear." She leaned to check her lipstick, tutted, and strolled past him to presumably her bedroom, heels clicking. When she emerged, she had a clutch in her hands.

"What makes you think I would have any desire whatsoever to meet your parents, you presumptuous little meddler?" But he did, really. He wondered who Elliot Spencer was. He wondered if Elizabeth took after him or her mother. Mostly he wanted to know just how deeply rooted Elliot's 'family' was in the heart of London's criminal affairs. Was it true? It might be. It just might. Because they certainly couldn't be anything else but criminals, to be making such money. You only had to look at Elle's expensive wardrobe. But still he hesitated, suspecting treachery.

"Oh, whatever, come if you like, don't if you don't. I don't care." Elle waved her hand airily at him, fixing her lipstick in a mirror in the hall.

"Yes you do. You want me to meet your father." He stepped behind her in the mirror, meeting her eyes in the reflection. They quickly looked away. "Why?"

"Maybe..." she said at last, "I want him to see I haven't been totally useless for the past year." she murmured, dropping the lipstick back into her clutch. "Maybe I want him to know I'm still on his side."

She looked up, sad and serious for just a second. Then she said brightly,

"Please Jim? Won't you fix it for me to come to tea?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Please?" she drawled, smiling coaxingly. "I'll owe you a favor. Two, if you like."

"What _favors_ could I possibly need from you?" he raised an eyebrow at her dramatics, wondering where the hell this woman had been all his life.

"Anything you like." she said seriously. "Anything. I'm sure you'll find a use for them."

He looked at her pale, clever face and dark lips and thought perhaps he could. Tonight, even. Just maybe.

Damn it, why did this keep happening to him? The minute he stood in her presence his plans crumbled. His resolve to be done with her failed. What was happening to him? Why couldn't he just give in? It had always been so easy.

This was becoming anything but easy. He didn't know what to do, and he hated that feeling. Perhaps he'd talk to Sebastian. The only person on Earth who would listen.

But first things first.

"Dinner, Elizabeth?" he suggested lightly.

She beamed. "I thought you'd never ask."

_Notes: Chapter seven! Elle's secret identity is partially revealed. More room to play now that the masks are off, eh? ;) I'm thinking about possibilities of future chapters, and have decided to knock up the rating to M, just in case Jim and Elle decide to get- ahem- intimate, but also because... well, you'll see. :) I EAT REVIEWS FOR BREAKFAST, SUPPER, AND ELEVENSES. ~Much love, A_


	8. Chapter 8: Sinnerman

Elizabeth Spencer left her apartment very calm, collected, and very much alive. This feat, accomplished on the arm of Jim Moriarty no less, established killer and sociopathic genius, caused Sebastian Moran to gawk in the car where he waited.

Jim saw, of course, and rolled his eyes as he opened the door for the girl. If he was going to keep having to explain himself to Seb, it was going to get boring quickly. But all that later. He got into the car himself and said cheerfully,

"Take us to the restaurant, Seb! No need to be out all night."

"Sure, boss." the hitman muttered, putting the car into drive and pulling away. But his confusion was obvious. He kept glancing into the rearview mirror much more often than normal. Not at Elle, though. She wasn't a concern to him- no, she was busy with her phone. Seb kept peering behind him at Jim, who glared at him silently to stop it, the annoying bastard.

The girl was supposed to be dead, not quietly and contently texting in the backseat. This would make the first time Jim had ever left seriously threatening to kill someone and come back not having done so. It was no wonder Sebastian was confused.

All three of them were quiet on the way- Elle texted placidly, Jim stared out the window, and Seb drove stoicly.

They arrived within ten minutes, and Seb recommenced his slightly alarmed stare as again, Jim played gentleman and helped Elle out of the car. Jim shot him a deadly, 'shut up, we'll talk later, idiot' kind of glare, shut the door and escorted Elizabeth in.

The maître d' smiled simperishly and welcomed them with a, "Good evening. Name?"

"Richard Brook." Jim said indifferently. The bulging man had a twitching vein in his temple that was probably going to burst into his head and kill him soon (if his heart attack didn't), a suit that while well-made was ill-tailored, and was cutting sly looks at them over the reservation list. Boring.

"If you'll follow me, sir, your table is waiting."

They were seated in a cosy corner of the half filled, warm restaurant, presented with a wine list, and left alone for a matter of seconds before the waitress arrived, young and nervous (obviously new), depositing bread on the table and stuttering her way through an introduction and specials list.

"Two French 75s, if you please." Jim handed the girl the wine list without a second glance, choosing instead to sneak one up at Elle, who suppressed a smile but didn't say anything until the waitress left, when she said wryly,

"You ought to be kinder to the poor thing. It's her first day."

Jim, who had expected a comment on the cocktails, blinked, fazed that she would think to lecture him about kindness. But then his lips twitched. "How do you know?" he asked, wanting to test her.

"It's plain to see by her nerves." Elle said simply, turning a page. "But her shirt is new, apron spotless, and she used lipstick, liner, _and_ lipgloss."

Jim laughed. "What? Lipgloss? That's how you deduced it?"

Elle raised an eyebrow. "Yes." She set her menu down at the edge of the table and shifted to get comfortable in her chair. "A girl notices these things, even if men don't."

"I simply don't see what lipgloss has to do with anything."

"It makes the lips shiny." Elle explained.

"I know _that._" Jim chuckled. "And I also note you're not wearing any. Why not? Isn't that the thing?"

Elle looked aghast. "Not with _dark_ lipstick, Jim."

"Forgive me, have I said something obvious?" he asked dryly. God, he hoped not.

She laughed softly- almost a giggle. "To me, yes. But I don't suppose you'll ever have need of it, will you?"

"Not personally, no. But practically, you never know. Enlighten me?"

She raised her eyebrows at him before smilingly accepting the cocktail offered to her by the waitress and taking a sip.

"What?" Jim said defensively, though he smiled. "I want to know."

"No you don't." she laughed. "That's ridiculous, what would you want to know about makeup for?"

"For practical reasons. Because I like to learn new things. Because I want you to tell me things, Elizabeth. So-" He tipped his forehead and his glass to her before he drank- "Humor me."

Something soft and wondering in her gaze made him pause, uncertain, but she laughed softly again and said,

"All right. Lipstick. Depends on skin, eyes, and hair colors- brighter skin and eyes work with brighter lip colors, and vice versa with dark. Dark lips are better for nighttime, or for autumn- and sparingly, because they're dramatic, and you'd never add a gloss to them because the dark color is a statement in itself- the shine is asking for too much attention."

She glanced around and then leaned forward to whisper, smiling, "Personally I think lipgloss and lipstick are separate entities and should be treated so- using both is an exclamation of 'Have me, adore me, look at me!'"

"I am." Jim murmured.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and sighed (he didn't blame her).

The rest of dinner went as smoothly, as cautiously. They stuck to small talk and subtle flirting. They were in public. It was a dim, warm restaurant, filled with unconcerned patrons, on a typical summer Friday in London. And yet both of them felt... exposed.

As they finished their dinners (she ate like a bird, no wonder she was so slim) Elle asked,

"What do we do now?"

"Hm?" Jim hummed absently.

"I mean..." she hesitated. Shook her head. "Never mind. I'll elaborate in a minute. I've got it." she added, as the waitress deposited their check with a smile.

"No, actually dear, I have." Jim said smoothly, sliding five bills into the sleeve and handing it back.

"Shall we split it?" Elizabeth asked pleasantly.

"Nope." Jim said firmly. "We'll have the change, thank you, love." He said to the waitress, who awkwardly left.

Elle sighed, obviously annoyed. "I was the one who initially suggested dinner. Twice."

"And I suggested it last, so I pay." Jim said airily. "Don't fight it, darling, it won't be the last time."

"It won't?" The corner of her mouth lifted.

Jim didn't answer, only smirked, and accepted the change from the waitress.

"Oh, just a minute, please." Elle said quickly, fishing in her bag. The waitress paused, and her glossy pink lips parted in utter surprise as Elle deposited four fifty pound notes into the shocked girl's hands.

"Have a nice night dear, I hope your first night goes well." Elle said dismissively, hiding a smile Jim was sure was meant for him and had nothing to do with the girl. He glowered.

"How- how did you-?" The waitress stuttered. She watched Elle rise in awe and let out a beaming smile and a, "Thank you very much, madam!" before scurrying away.

"Why did you do that?" Jim asked in a low voice, carefully settling an arm around Elle's waist and smirking, satisfied, when it was allowed to remain.

"It's her first night." Elle said carelessly. "She ought to have one good tip."

"You gave her two hundred pounds- almost the equivalent of the bill."

"So?" She blinked into her handmirror peacefully, ignoring him.

"You wanted to be obstinate, you stubborn little thing." Jim contradicted, almost fondly.

She snapped her mirror shut and smiled, but didn't reply because Sebastian was waiting outside the car, leaning on it and looking wildly out of place in his ridiculous leather jacket, apparently without a care.

"Hello, Miss Spencer." he said politely. He glanced at Jim for confirmation, and receiving a nod, turned his gaze back to Elle expectantly.

"Hello. We spoke on the phone." Elle commented thoughtfully. "It was you originally supposed to procure my ID papers."

"Do you still need them?"

"No." She laughed. "My secret is out. But I never got your name, Mister...?"

"Moran." he supplied. "Sebastian Moran, at your service, m'am."

"Pleasure. Could you take me back home, Sebastian?"

"Of course, m'am." He moved to open the door, and immediately left for the driver's seat, letting Jim close the door behind him.

Another silent drive, not even broken by the sound of a radio- Seb liked to listen to music, but Jim didn't.

"Will you come in?" Elle asked as they arrived, reaching to brush her fingers over Jim's hand.

He took it and kissed it. "Of course I will."

In the elevator, Elle leaned her head comfortably on Jim's shoulder, lids half shut.

"I had a nice time." she said tranquilly.

"Good. So did I."

"It was strange, though."

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Jim grinned to himself.

Elle whispered confidentally, "I haven't been on a real date before. Not in years."

"Me either." Jim revealed, to his own surprise. The doors opened, and they walked down the hallway, whose flickering lights made strange shadows on the thick carpet.

She unlocked the door, but turned to face him. Oh. He wasn't coming in tonight. Damn.

Suddenly, he asked, "Are you a virgin, Elizabeth?"

She smiled. "No. Are you?"

"No." He leaned against the doorframe, admiring her mouth. "I only wonder why you haven't been on any dates."

"Remember when I said I don't do one night stands?" she murmured, reaching forward to brush her hand down his tie curiously.

"Mhm?" he traced the edge of her jawline slowly with a finger, wishing he could figure out why his stomach felt so warm and anxious.

"That's because, you see, I prefer two week long flings. No strings attached. Much less tedious."

"A sweet little thing like you?" Jim teased, slowly, carefully framing her pale face in his hands. She smiled and leaned into him, eyes shut and expression dreamy. He raked his eyes almost desperately over her features, determined to memorize it. As though she were going to evaporate between his fingers.

"I shouldn't think of it." he murmured. "You're supposed to be the innocent young virgin. I'm supposed to be charming you with wicked wiles."

"You are charming. But how about one of those wiles of yours?"

Obligingly he pressed his lips to hers, aware of the relieved little sigh that escaped her lips, but not of the clever little hands that snuck under his jacket until he sighed himself and held her tighter, kissed her harder.

Was that a little shiver he felt? It was. Something stirred in his belly and he pressed harder, held tighter, with almost a fierce note of anger, built up frustration, desire. He didn't want to let go. Not ever. Something was changing. He wanted to dissolve into her and she into him. The first time he'd kissed her he'd thought of electricity waiting to be switched on- this time he thought of being electrocuted, and if this were it, it would be a welcome execution.

Elle gasped suddenly, gulping down air with a harsh noise that she tried hard to quiet. Oh, that sound was dangerous. It nearly made him quake. He wanted to hear it again. He opened his eyes, and found the sight of her panting for breath extremely pleasant, like heady wine. He bent and kissed her throat on impulse, delighting in the warmth of hot blood pumping feverishly beneath it.

"Oh," she whispered, nearly a whimper, "I want to let you in."

"Then let me in." he murmured, sliding his hands down to join his mouth in adoring her throat.

"I will." she whispered. "But not tonight. Please, not tonight."

"All right." He straightened, slightly drunken off of the kiss and off of the awed, trembling look she was giving him.

"I'll be in touch." he promised.

"Yes." Elle smiled wearily. Her grey, ice-like eyes twinkled. "My lipstick becomes you."

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" He bent and kissed her again firmly. "Goodnight, Elizabeth."

"Goodnight, Jim." With a slightly dazed smile, she slid behind her door and shut it, leaving him there.

Jim sighed, frustrated. He could do with a cold shower. And a cigarette.

But never mind.

"Seb?" he said when he returned to the car, "We've got homework to do."  
~~

"It seems she wasn't lying." Seb said over his mess of papers, leaning both hands on the desk. He had just gotten off the phone, to which he had been attached for the last three-quarters of an hour, talking to people and asking about Elliot Spencer.

"Her father's behind the scenes of everything from arson to z. Real heavy hitter. And for years, it looks like."

"But he's not directly responsible for any of it?" Jim insisted, pacing back and forth behind Sebastian, his third cigarette between his teeth. It wasn't giving him the composure he wanted. He could still feel the oily residue where Elle's lipstick remained- where he could almost feel her lips lingering. He couldn't bring himself to wash it off yet.

"No," Sebastian continued. He leaned over his laptop and pressed a few keys. "In fact, his name doesn't appear anywhere. I'm even hard put to find his mate, this Alistair bloke. But he's got a factory in Leeds. Makes pills."

"Boring. What else?"

"He was originally a tailor."

"What? Ridiculous." Jim turned and leaned over his shoulder. "Where are you reading this?"

"His website. Got a picture and everything."

"He's got a _website?_" Jim scoffed, gazing at the photo. "What is he doing, asking for an arraignment?" He looked closer. An aging gentleman, of course, tall and rather worn looking, from overuse. Jim grimaced. Ugh, age was disgusting. But this man seemed to be braving it rather well; his wrinkles were only deepset in the heavy forehead. His silvery hair was the exact color of his sharp, clever eyes, which stared out of the photo and gave Jim a little chill. He laughed appreciatively.

"She's certainly her father's daughter." he remarked.

"She is?" Seb asked skeptically. "I don't see it."

"Yes, they've got the same eyes."

"Oh." Seb paused, and Jim wished he would hurry up and say whatever was on his mind.

"Do you like this girl, Jim?"

Jim made a tutting noise at the stupid question and stood up, walking away and returning his thoughts to his cigarette.

Seb's words were careful, but urgent, full of concern. "You know what I mean. She's got to be alive for a reason- and now she knows who you are... she's dangerous. What do you plan to do about it? Is killing her off even an option to you anymore?"

Jim blew smoke at the ceiling slowly. "Think I'll have to make an appointment to meet Daddy soon. Got to find out what they're really up to. Which lies are real. Which are deceptions. Should be interesting, don't you think?"

_Notes: I really don't care for this chapter, much. I'm posting another chapter so soon only because I wanted to be rid of it. (And because you're all brilliant, duh.) Anyways, your reviews have kept me smiling for days, m'loves! Thank you! Continue to do so- I'll be able to keep you happiest if I know where your thoughts lie. More interesting action in chapters soon to come! ~xxo, A_

_ P.S. As an American writing Britons, I'm also looking for feedback on how I'm doing with that. Thanks! :)  
P.P.S. The title is from a great song by Nina Simone- "Sinnerman". It plays during the scene in_ Sherlock_ when Jim asks the security guard if she would mind slipping her hand into his pocket. ...Whew. I certainly wouldn't! ;)_

*Update note: I've changed 'fall' to 'autumn' as mentioned, as well as tweaked with the pound notes for accuracy. Thanks to TimeDog and other guest reviewers for your help! 


	9. Chapter 9: Your Blood Is On My Hands

_Warnings: V. minor blood/gore towards the end!_

Elle stared in actual exasperation at the massive vase sitting on her coffee table, her keys still in the door, arms laden with shopping. Though previously locked, her apartment had obviously been breached to deliver the flowers. Great. So much for security. So much for expensive locks and unbreachable doors.

Not that it would have been the most difficult thing to pick a lock, but _honestly._ There were other methods that didn't involve showing off. The flirt.

She deposited her bags on the floor and crept closer to see. The vase itself was enormous- crystal or glass, and filled to the brim with easily two dozen flowers of different varieties. Queen Anne's Lace, tulips, and the roses! So many roses- pink and white and coral and pale, lovely peach- her favorite. It took her breath away.

As had probably been the intention. She shook her head, laughing quietly to herself because no one could see. Probably. Forcibly she shoved away the chill creeping up her back that wondered, nervously, how easily her space had been invaded.

Carefully, she pried a peach rose out of it's place and inhaled the gentle perfume with a little sigh.

_A small girl toddles into the garden, throwing shoes and stockings behind her. Hair pins fly out into the wind and giggling fills the hot breeze- it is Sunday afternoon after church, and she is free- unchained. The sun bears down on a blonde head thick with frizz and curl and bouncy with youthful abandon. _

_ The grass feels cool and fresh under bare feet, and makes her giggle louder. The nanny won't come until tomorrow, and Mummy is entertaining people indoors._

_ A delicious smell tickles her senses, and suddenly a wonderful idea occurs. She flies across the garden, quiet as a mouse with her new, special secret. Mummy's rose bush is a thing of beauty. The first blooms are showing their blushing faces. Slowly, Elizabeth reaches forward and grabs the prettiest, a nodding damsel that is almost as lovely as the tiny thing can bear._

_ She gasps in pain- the thorns dig into her baby flesh, and a trickle of blood creeps down her hand. It stings, but the blood merely fascinates her- what is this red ooze?- a mild distraction. But she is determined. With a gigantic tug, she wins the flower from the bush and crows in victory. She runs into the house as fast as she can- in through the back door, through the kitchen, down the hall and into the parlor._

_ She freezes- she has forgotten Mummy has company. Six or seven tall, laughing ladies pause in their chatter and Elizabeth trembles, sure she's in deep trouble._

_ "Elizabeth? Are you bleeding?" Her mother appears, lovely and sweet and gentle._

_ "I got you the pretty flower, Mummy." Elizabeth says timidly. The thorns in her palms are irrelevant. Nurse will take many minutes later prying them all out, but the girl will not shed a single tear._

_ "Oh, cheri." Mummy bends and smiles. Her lady friends twitter. "My favorite. Merci."_

_ Elizabeth glows._

That's right. The summer home in Nice. She hadn't been there in years, but she still remembered her mother's rose bush and it's lovely fragrance, which had lulled her to sleep every childhood summer of her life.

Her phone vibrated with a text from within her purse, pulling her out of her thoughts and back onto her feet.

She hefted the shopping bags into the kitchen and put the groceries away first, trying to settle her nerves and convince herself that she was perfectly safe and very much on the good side of one master criminal.

She checked the text. It was from an unknown number, and read:

_Do you like your present? _

_ -RB_

Elle rolled her eyes at his dramatics. For the second time in a weekend, her phone number had been hacked. Why did she even bother?

But glancing at the peach rose on the counter, she smiled faintly and quickly texted back,

_They're lovely, thank you._

Nearly immediately, a reply arrived.

_Not the flowers. Look under the red rose buds._

Red rose buds? Frowning in confusion, she took her phone and her peach rose and bent over the coffee table again to look.

In the middle of the arrangement, a single, full-blown white rose was dipping its head slightly. She tipped it out of the way and could see two red buds- tiny baby flowers entwined together by something shiny.

Slowly, she pulled the necklace out by its fine chain. It was heavier than she expected, and when the stone came swinging into view she gasped so loudly that she clasped her hand to her mouth to muffle the sound.

A huge ruby, easily bigger than the size of her middle finger and thumb curled together, hung delicately off of its silver chain, sparkling in the dim light of her apartment. Iridescent red and purple, clear and smooth and perfect, it gleamed with a light all its own, swinging gently below her outstretched fist.

Her heart pumping wildly, rapidfire thoughts bounced from one side of her brain to another. She squeezed the chain until it bit into her flesh, willing herself not to tremble. Part of her was _beaming _with pleasure- another was quaking. This was something entirely different than a simple vase of flowers. What kind of feelings was she inspiring in the mind and heart of London's most psychopathic criminal? And what exactly was her opinion on that subject, anyway?

_He could come and kill you in the night, _she thought. _That's not how you planned to die- is it?_

The ruby shimmered, a red that was anything but innocent. She was reminded suddenly of Jim's low laughter, his languid smirks, the trembling mess of her he'd made when he'd left her at her door two nights ago. And God, that voice. She adored his unique voice- smooth, high, melodic, Irish and sexy. She bit her lips hard and squeezed her eyes shut. _Best not think about that at the moment, Elizabeth,_ she chided herself nervously,_ Or you'll go and think about accepting this bauble._

"_Let me in._" he'd murmured into her skin. Not demanding or laughing or teasing. Utter seriousness. He would have come in and continued kissing her and who knows what else. And she would have melted into a happy, girlish puddle in his capable hands. Could she afford that? Could her family?

Elizabeth trembled. "_I will._" she had promised. She had said she would let him in. Not when or how, but the promise had been in the timber of her voice. She couldn't very well take it back, and nor did she necessarily want to- did she? Could she really do it? Let this man- this cool, suave killer- into her apartment, into her life, and maybe even into her heart?

She shivered, suddenly very warm- her cheeks burned, and her stomach felt like it was suddenly rotting in her gut. And yet the ruby's cold chain remained cold- her hands were freezing. Her body was displaying minute signs of hypothermia- maybe she was going to freeze to this very spot. She scowled. Over the likes of a serial killer. Damn him.

Well, she knew one way to get her blood flowing.

With the necklace still in her hand, she pulled her chilly fingers from her mouth, picked up her phone, and stiffly dialed the number he was texting from.

It rang only once, and was answered with an irritable,

"_What do you want?_"

For just a second, she only listened- let the sound absorb into her brainwaves, let her blood grow hot again, and smiled. Dangerous. Was she turning into Jim Moriarty's thermostat? Then, ignoring his tone (Papa was worse), she sank into the couch, watching the pendant swing and asking, business-like, "Are you busy at the moment?"

A pause of perhaps two seconds, in which she could sense him smirking slowly. Her stomach contracted unpleasantly, and she ignored it. She disliked phone conversations- so many vocal cues were lost- but they were necessary. She would have to adapt.

"_Not presently._" he said in a much more satisfied way."_How are you, darling?_"

"What have you done_?_" she murmured threateningly, half a pleased smile not quite ruining the sound effect she had intended.

"_I'm a man with a long history, Elizabeth- you'll have to specify_."

"You have given me," Elle said slowly, "The Philosopher's Stone hidden in a vase of roses."

A scoffing sound. "_If that was even real, I would have. An everyday stone _sans_ the Elixir of Life will have to do._"

She laughed once in stunned disbelief, covering her mouth again because laughing was rude. She gave herself a moment to close her eyes and recompose her thoughts.

"_I'm not so sure about your tone, dear," _Jim went on, as though a little bemused,_ "But I kinda _like_ it. Are you angry with me?"_

Impossible. This man was completely impossible. An everyday stone? A ruby the damned size of a strawberry and he was going for nonchalant and flirtacious? And if he kept _playing_ with his voice like that she was going to lose it. Completely lose it.

No no no. Not for long, she vowed. She stood suddenly, pressing the phone into her ear and shucking off her shoes as she spoke, ignoring his previous question.

"Are you going to be not-presently-busy for a while?"

"_I could be. Why?_"

Elle arranged the pendant carefully on the coffee table and made her way into her bedroom. "My apartment building's visiting hours are now open, and I have a certain everyday stone to return to a profligate gentleman caller of mine. Mind assisting?"

"_Mm._" An amused quality made his voice tingle into the muscles of her ear pleasantly, and with a slow breath she willed herself to focus on changing panties and not losing them. "_Those are so annoying. Are you going to let him down gently?_"

"Absolutely not, but don't you worry. He'll pop out of here with this pendant in his pocket."

"_Unlikely. Leave your door open. Give me thirty minutes._"

"Twenty." She zipped her dress back up with effort, a difficult task to do one-handed.

"_Eager?_" Almost a laugh in his voice now. She was going bite her lipstick off. She closed her eyes.

"Impatient." she corrected sternly.

"_Of course._" Dryly. _"I'll be right there._"

"You'd better." Elle muttered, hanging up and trailing into the bathroom. "I want that shiny thing so badly it's a heartache." She rested her hands on either side of the sink, scowling. "And it's going to be hard work to get that preening ego of yours to take it back in the first place, thank you _so_ much."

She had come into the bathroom with the intention of freshening up- perhaps a new coat of lipstick, repinning a stray lock or two, maybe toying with some eyeliner.

But now her hand hesitated over her hairpins. She glanced up into the mirror, gazing critically at her reflection. Her eyes were brighter, cheeks more ruddy than they had been in a year. But still she doubted.

Was she deliberately sporting her best frocks and effectively wasting lipstick on this man? What exactly did she intend the outcome of this evening to be, if she was being honest?

The return of the pendant? Hopefully. It was so _damned_ _expensive, _and so attractive for that reason. Money wasn't intimidating to her- she could easily lie back and let him try and woo her with rubies and other fine things. Others had before. Not that they'd lasted long.

And what of Jim Moriarty? Was he so different? Was it going to come to anything other than fearing that her door was going to open and a dark shadow come out of it in the middle of the night and drive a pointy reckoning into her heart?

Elle scoffed at herself, leaving the hairpins and going for her perfume instead. Never mind it. Don't be silly. The lipstick wasn't for him. Neither were the dresses or the heels. Elizabeth Spencer dolled herself up for no man.

She did it for herself- to enjoy the effects both in the mirror and in the eye of the public. She enjoyed the magnetism a well cut dress could afford, the eyes that followed- men and women's, appreciative or otherwise. The gazes that stuck to her like flies to honey and blood to a knife. She craved it.

She picked up a blood red lipgloss thoughtfully. It was new and quite tempting in its pristine little case. She opened it and applied it with all the absent-minded skill of a woman long accustomed to doing makeup, nearly glaring down at the counter as she did. Silly. Never mind. It was certainly no time to get bothered. If Jim happened to be caught in the crossfire of her ministrations, all the best of luck to him. She was prepared.

Humming quietly low in her throat, she finished her makeup and left the suite, finding herself at the coffee table again, trailing her fingers over the chain of the pendant, this time curiously. It was so beautiful- so new.

After a moment's hesitation, she hung the chain off of her fingers and let the gem sparkle in the light of the afternoon sun. It really seemed luminescent from here, even though that was logically impossible. Just as though something outside nature was making it glimmer like that, a low, late summer's glow. And was it heavy -she could only guess at the density, but was sure that even a drop out her fifth floor window wouldn't put a scratch into it.

Her other hand trailed up, not quite willing to touch it, almost with the subconscious sense it would burn, with a colour so red and flickering. She found herself wondering things she had never concerned herself about, at least before she set out on her own. Things like- how much had he spent on this, really? How much was a single date worth? A single woman? Could you put a monetary limit on something as strange as this? Was it priceless, this game they were toying with? Or worthless in the end?

She heard him come in. Of course she did. Her door was right behind and though he was nearly silent and chillingly so, the walls themselves seemed to hush anxiously at his arrival.

She smiled. There was a part of her deep inside that did that too.

A hand, brushing up her waist, another curling around her shoulder, the warm whisper of his breath next to her ear. She closed her eyes and tilted her head towards the sound, the chill she'd felt since discovering the pendant melting away.

"Go on." he murmured, sing-song. "You want to..."

"I oughtn't." she whispered back. "It's too much, you know."

"Elizabeth, if I wanted to overdo a thing, trust me. I could have. You are already toying with minimal self-control, my dear." The warmth of his breath tickled her neck and she squeezed her eyes shut, forgetting to breathe.

"Am I?" This made her smile a little. She liked to think of his self-control slipping, spiraling away- all at merely a touch from her. What a heady cocktail _that _would be.

Jim reached around her and brushed his fingers over the back of her hand, scooping the chain from her fingers into his. "Does that amuse you?"

"It's a tempting challenge."

He let out an exasperated sigh. "I give you a ruby and you're more interested in playing with my patience?"

Without waiting for an answer, he took the pendant and strung it around her, clasping the catch at just the right height to settle the stone comfortably under the bone to the hollow of her throat.

Elle shivered again, gooseflesh breaking over her skin. It was _cold._ Cold enough, next to her heart, even to make her shiver again. It looked like a coal that had just been plucked out of a fire, but it was truly a stone. Cold, unbreakable, heavy.

She turned, reaching again as though to touch the tear-shaped gem, but again hesitating, her fingers splayed around it instead. It seemed too much of a lovely thing to touch with human fingers.

Jim's eyes were dark, and he didn't smile. He seemed much taller now that he had shoes on and she didn't. Almost of their own accord, his hands trailed up to her hair and began plucking out the pins holding it all up. Instead of teasing, his voice was low and serious when he murmured,

"Do you think, Elizabeth, that you could do me the honour of taking care of this for a while?"

"It's a burden I could bear easily enough." She smiled, but it faded quickly upon a sudden realization. Her hair continued falling around her ears. "You didn't buy this, did you?"

"No." he said matter-of-factly. He pulled out the last pins in the very back. Elle swiveled her head to the side to help him. "It was given me. A very long time ago."

"You want me to have it?"

"I'd like you to keep it warm for me." He swept her fallen hair over her shoulder and sucked in a tiny breath- she heard it.

"See something you like?" she teased gently.

Jim blinked once, all long lashes, dark eyes. And then something hard and terrifyingly clever sparkled, a tiny drop of menace in his gaze. None of him moved. It was chilling, terrifying, _gorgeous. _She stilled.

"Is that why you keep your hair up?" he said quietly, thoughtfully. "Wear those silly big girl shoes and paint your lips redder than sin?"

Elle kept silent. She was watching the thoughts pour from thoughts to epiphanies to words with almost hypnotized fascination.

He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger, tilting his head as though there were something he couldn't quite figure.

"Look at you." he murmured. "So little and white and breakable. Like a doll. Like a child."

Suddenly his fingers tightened and then let go. His wondering voice froze over and grew icy. "How old are you?"

"What an inappropriate question." She raised an eyebrow.

"_Elizabeth-_"

"I'm twenty-four, would you kindly relax?" She scowled unhappily. "Yes, I look seventeen, but I assure you I'm not."

She watched him breathe again. His eyes melted back into easy, quiet brown. He even tried to make it up, by smiling and assuring her, "You don't look seventeen, darling."

She shot an evil look at him. "Liar."

"Don't believe me? Tsk." He bit down a smirk that appeared so suddenly it made her stomach jump woosily. "You should. Yeah, you may be little. What-" He cast a glance to the top of her head- "One and a half meters?"

"I am not-"

"_Ah._" he said warningly, curling a smile. She quieted- reluctantly.

He framed her face with his hands, his voice low and thoughtful and just a little mocking. "You're little and sweet and charming with your hair down and your shoes off. But it certainly doesn't make me want you any less."

"Ah. The truth arises." she teased quietly, but there was a warm fluttering now in her belly that she promptly ignored. Or tried to. It was quite prominent.

"All as if you didn't know. Bless you, how precious."

"I always did, though." Partly because she now could, she rolled up onto the tips of her toes and kissed him, intending for a quick peck, but ending up remaining there when he settled his hands around her waist, squeezing lightly. To her dismay, he broke the kiss to grin.

"I knew it." he murmured. "Dancer."

"It's kind of obvious?" she said, a little pityingly, with a soft smile, remaining _en pointe_. "I'm not quite out of form."

"That's why I didn't mention it before now." He glanced leisurely down her frame, calculating. She could get used to that expression, she thought. "But you don't train every day. Maybe a few times a week?"

"I have class three times a week. It's my exercise and my dearest hobby."

"Hm, yes, quite." he muttered.

Elle sighed and sank back onto her feet. She'd lost him. She could hear him thinking. Measuring her muscle tone, body shape, who knew what else. Grasping her wrist, Jim extended her arm down and out from her shoulder, examining closely. Then he prodded the other- she raised it, slightly bent, above her head. She turned her left foot out and crossed her right parallel in front of it. Second nature- _Forth position- en haut._

"Pity you decided not to go professional." Jim commented lightly. "You could have been very pretty."

She let her arm fall gracefully, brushing her fingers down his cheek. "I'm imperfect. I've been dancing since I was a child, but you've never seen me."

"No." Jim agreed. "But you dance with every move. Every step. I've seen you. You're quite graceful- poised, even-" he curled up a smirk- "For a secretary." He brushed his lips across the wrist resting below his cheek, still smirking. "You've tried to scrub off the ink stains most diligently, love, but you ought to buy another product and save your poor hands the damage. It's doing you no good at all."

"How dare you make fun of me, rude man." She leaned into him, whispering a chaste kiss over his jaw. "And you were doing so well."

"Hardly- bit of a bad day for me. But don't pretend you don't like it."

"James Moriarty, are you trying to deduce me or seduce me?"

"Is there a bloody difference?"

"Not at all."

Jim bent close to her left ear and breathed, "So glad we understand each other."

Her heart stammered. Damned tease.

~~~

He couldn't put it off any longer- he kissed her like a dying man suffocating. No- no, that wasn't it. Too stupid, too cliché. Like a new user denied a second taste of crack. Almost. Nearly. Heroin?

Yes. Heroin. Just enough, at present, to set him into a high, to put sparklers into his blood and chill the everlasting _shit_ out of him. Sebastian and logic and all forms of common sense were niggling worriedly at him to drop this woman- drop her from a window, preferably- and move on, before she became the object of obsession.

_Too late,_ he thought a little deliriously. He'd thought she was a little pretty shiny thing at first- but then that had been his first slip. With a wit hard and dry as a diamond, she'd gotten more interesting. And with such _clever_ little _fingers- _she didn't paw or grasp or cling, like women usually did. No, she trailed her fingernails musingly down his scalp and into his jacket merely half interested, but wonderingly, as if she was inspecting a prospective purchase and finding it exactly to her taste.

Elle sighed, paused, and moved to lavish more of her sweet kisses down his jaw and into his neck, wrapping her white arms around his ribs, positively burying herself into his buttoned jacket somehow- ouch, her fingernails, that was killing him, stop that,_ do it again-_

God, he was going to break something, holding back like this. But he had to. Addicting as she was becoming, she was a dangerous little bird to be taking home with him. After all, she wasn't so very far away from rejoining the flock, was she? As if he could convince himself of that.

Apparently determined to survey every inch of him, within and without his suit, Elle trailed her free hand (the one that wasn't wreaking gorgeous havoc over his skin with her _fucking_ fingernails) over his chest, under his arm, over his hip, and into his pocket.

"Oh," she murmured into his neck, surprised. _Yes oh, _he thought, gripping a hand into her pretty hair, and pressing his mouth into her neck, _Now get your fucking hand out of there before you start getting clever with it, 'cause then I'm really going to-_

Humming a meaningless tune low in her throat quite happily, Elle curled her fingers around a certain thing residing in his pocket very, very slowly, stretching his self-control to the breaking point. Forget him, he was going to break _her_ tiny little matchstick body in half and then crumble into kindling directly behind her.

"What-" she pecked his face quickly, whispering- "Have you got in your pocket, James Moriarty?"

She pulled it out, inhaled, and made a deeply appreciative little hum. He looked up for a moment, to see what she was doing.

She tore her eyes from it to grin at him. "Switchblade. Very pretty."

"Hm." He managed not to sound as worked up as he felt, but at the first sound from his throat he watched her eyes lock onto his mouth and darken beautifully. Did his little bird have clever ears as well? Oh, that was useful to know. He must remember that.

"It's a personal favorite of mine." he said honestly, watching her flick the knife open with interest- what was her curiousity with knives? Perhaps a history, perhaps a passing comment in a history lesson- could be anything. As for the knife, it was rather old, unfortunately. He ought to have gotten rid of it by now.

"I knew you were a romantic." she teased lightly. "These are illegal."

"_You_ care about laws?"

"I do happen to be in the employ of the British government." she said matter-of-factly, now using both hands to turn the knife and examine it with almost fond attention.

"Only more reason for you not to care." He leaned down to kiss her again, but then froze, his hands firmly clench around her waist. The cold steel of the blade was being pressed into his cheek.

She was smiling, gently pressing the flat of his own fucking knife into his skin, slowly gliding it down his neck and over his jugular vein smoothly, caressingly- like she was doing him a favor.

"Are you going to cut me open and watch me bleed, sweetheart?" he asked quietly, more curious than anything else. He remained still. He could always swipe her tiny body down at a moment's notice- a single blow would do it.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Elle smiled. Her voice lowered, became soft, melodic. "_Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight?_"Slowly, she leaned forward and kissed the other side of the blade where it was pressing into his throat, and finished, "_Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?_"

Her normal voice returned, if a bit throaty- "And you'd adore to do that to me."

"How would you know?" he accused, gripping her waist still tighter. "You've never killed a soul in your life."

"Hm!" she let out a tiny laugh. "You think so?" She leaned back, taking the knife with her. Entranced, he watched as she pressed his knife into her own skin, blade down on the palm of her hand. Achingly slowly, she dragged it across her white little hand in a straight line- the heart line- enough to leave a red trail behind, enough to pool blood- just a little- just enough.

"True, maybe not with a knife." she said softly. "But I don't need you to tell me you want my blood on your hands." She pressed the fingers of her other hand over his throat. "Your heartbeat tells me so."

Slowly, fascinated, he reached out to catch a wayward blood droplet on his finger. It burned him like acid, and he closed his eyes blissfully. He gestured for the knife. "You are quite the Lady MacBeth, aren't you?"

"And you one shameless, Scottish king." She leaned her head on his shoulder (at least as high as she could reach it) and watched him carve a long line into his palm to match hers. He felt the catch in her breathing and smirked.

"Please, let's not get blasphemous."

"Why not? It's fun."

"I know. But it's a bit early for that sort of thing, don't you think?" He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.

Elle looked up at him questioningly, grey eyes molten to a gleaming silver.

"Now my blood is indeed on your hands." Jim murmured dreamily. "And yours on mine. As it should be."

Elle looked again at their hands- her left, his right, clutched together and just beginning to weep blood down their wrists. And she smiled.

"Dance with me, Jim?" she asked lightly.

"All night." he promised, wrapping his arm around her waist and beginning to turn, their bloody hands sealed tight. He was already dizzy, dangerously high.

Sweet, harmless little ballerina- please. She was deadly. And he was definitely screwed.

_Notes: My dears! Ohohoh, this chapter. Where to begin. First: it was just __**not**__coming together like I wanted it to, and therefore, the wait we all endured and the shoddy excuse for plot. Again. Seriously, I'm still not duly satisfied, and I rewrote it twice. I present it as filler material and beg your forgiveness- plot will return._

_ Second: Regarding warnings. I'll post warnings for blood/gore, abuse, violence, or anything else that may come up in the future deviations of the creative process at the beginning of the corresponding chapters. __**However, **__where Jim Moriarty is involved, he is to some extent his own warning. There is only so much one can do when one writes a sociopath as a main character._

_ Third: SQUEEEEE. YOUR REVIEWS ARE AMAZING. Thank you for being my bottles of sunshine, loves, keep talking to me! ;) xo, A_

_ P.S. LOTS of symbolism in this chapter. The pendant, the blood/hands bit, the knife, Elle's flowers, more. Points and a high-five to anyone who works any out. Go on, you know you want to!_


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